


Daisy, Daisy

by unfortunate_truth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, America is Alfred F. Jones, Ancient curses, Curse Breaking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, England is Arthur Kirkland, Gay Panic, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Time Travel, USUK - Freeform, Underage Drinking, fem!america is alfred's best friend, just some excellent stuff, please read this it's quite good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfortunate_truth/pseuds/unfortunate_truth
Summary: Alfried F. Jones has it all - he's popular, ahtletic, and has genuinely caring parents and friends. It's senior year, and all Alfred wants, really, is to graduate - until a mysterious foreign exchange student crash-lands in his life. Who is this guy, and why is he dressed so nicely? And why is it that every time Alfred gets close to him, his allergies act up? And why does everyone in Farmington, Nebraska seem to know what's going on except Alfred?Or, where Arthur is a prissy foreign exchange student and Alfred is a clueless jock, and a mysterious curse involving tattoos, allergies, and the hidden meanings of flowers brings them together.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Sniffles

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was basically borne of a couple things: 1) my obsession with tattoos, 2) my fascination with flowers, and the secret language they convey, 3) this one kid who went to my high school who had HELLA sensitive skin. (Literally, if someone touched his skin, even for a bit, it would turn red.) I'm fully aware that hetalia as a fandom is dead, and I'm also aware that most of this fic makes no sense. However. I urge you to roll with it. (Just read the fic please it's pretty good)
> 
> ~~~ _This work is a gift for my best friend, who introduced me to Hetalia in the 8th grade and basically made me gay. Kidding! For real though, she is a fantastic artist and a lovely person, and when school got cancelled for us in March and she texted me and said "I have a most devious idea ... You know how ur writing muscles are absolutely ripped compared to you in 8th grade?" I couldn't help myself. I wrote a 50k fic. So this is for her._ ~~~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our story begins with a mysterious new student, and a case of the sniffles.

> #23. What flower, symbolic of innocence, does Ophelia hand out in Act 4?  
>  A. Fennel  
>  B. Rosemary  
>  C. Daisy  
>  D. Pansy  
> 

_Shit,_ Alfred thought. Then he said it under his breath, all drawn out, just for good measure: _“Shiiit.”_ He tapped his chewed-on pencil once, then twice on his desk, glancing around the room at his peers, all bent studiously over their tests. How was he supposed to know what flower represents thoughtfulness? How was he supposed to remember _one_ flower in Act 4 of _Hamlet?_ Alfred couldn’t even remember reading _Hamlet!_ He paused, considering. Now that he thought about it, he probably hadn’t even read _Hamlet_ at all. Whoops.  


Alfred scratched his nose sorrowfully, staring at the second hand of the classroom clock as it made its impossibly slow circular journey. His nose really was itching today.  


He turned back to his test, glaring at the 23rd question. He knew it wasn’t fennel, because he distinctly remembered fennel representing adultery, which he, as an 18-year-old boy, believed to be extremely funny. Rosemary, to Alfred at least, was a strange green thing his mom sometimes put on food, so he knew that wasn’t right either. _Daisy or pansy? Daisy or pansy?_ He scratched his nose again, this time with his pencil, and sniffed. Why was his nose running? The mere act of _thinking_ of flowers was making his body react. _Daisies or pansies?_  


This was all so _stupid._ Alfred hated this. He hated tests, he hated quizzes; he hated the mundane hours spent listening to bored teachers half-heartedly ramble through lectures. This was his senior year, and though it was only March, he could feel graduation like it was a palpable, tangible force; a voice, beckoning him, singing to him of freedom and opportunity and _summertime._ He could feel it, the same way you can smell the arrival of spring on the breeze. Alfred didn’t want to remember the meaning of some stupid flower, nor did he want to recall anything about the old geezer who wrote the play. In the grand scheme of things, Shakespeare was just some dead guy from the UK.  


Suddenly the door to the English classroom flew open, startling Alfred from his reverie. He glanced at the clock - how had he wasted fifteen minutes choosing between daisies and pansies? He hurriedly circled one at random, then cast his attention back to the door, where the cause of the commotion stood.  


The interloper was definitely foreign, Alfred decided within seconds. Maybe not foreign, but definitely not from Farmington, Nebraska. No one in Farmington would show up to school looking like _that._ The guy was slight in build but quite tall, with ivory skin and a tuft of curly, bleach-blonde hair dyed red at the tips. His hair flopped over his forehead in a slightly awkward way, resting on a pair of round glasses. _Harry Potter-lookin ass,_ Alfred thought, smirking. The boy’s eyes darted around the room, assessing his surroundings - as the newcomer surveyed the scene, Alfred couldn’t help but notice those eyes were a startlingly bright green. The interloper’s outfit was what really struck Alfred as strange, though: the boy wore tight plaid pants, scuffed-up black platform loafers, a faded, grubby t-shirt, and an army green jacket that looked at least three sizes too big. As Mrs. Bonam, the dreaded geriatric English teacher, tottered over to the new student, Alfred looked back down at his test. He didn’t want to seem creepy. He scratched again at his nose, then sneezed. _Man,_ he really did have the sniffles.  


Alfred tried to keep his eyes on his test, but as Mrs. Bonam led the oddly-dressed boy to the front of the room, Alfred's eyes followed him, tracking his movements. The boy was just … so much to take in. He was unlike anything Alfred had ever seen. Boys, at least in Farmington, wore sweats and sneakers. They were on principle averse to any color other than navy blue, gray, black, or maroon, and sometimes, if they really wanted to make a splash, they wore a sports jersey. They definitely wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid, and they certainly didn’t have dyed hair. Boys, at least to Alfred, were dull and uninteresting. This boy, however, was not.  


"Yoo-hoo, boys and girls!” Mrs. Bonam called, as if addressing a room of seven-year-olds, rather than a half-asleep mass of sweatshirts, airpods, and teenage angst. “We have a new student here! Would you like to introduce yourself, young man?”  


The boy pursed his lips, adjusting his grip on his orange Fjallraven Kanken bag. Alfred narrowed his eyes. Of course this kid had one of _those_ bags. Of course it was orange. Of course. “I’d really rather not,” the boy finally said in a thick British accent. _Harry Styles-soundin’ ass,_ Alfred thought bitterly, scowling.  


Mrs. Bonam ignored the British kid’s obvious disrespect - or, perhaps she hadn’t even realized he was being rude - and smiled. “Okay, mister. Boys and girls, this is Arthur Kirkland. He’s a foreign exchange student from England.”  


"Great Britain,” the kid muttered under his breath.  


Mrs. Bonam continued, oblivious. “His flight got delayed a bit…”  


"Cancelled. Twice.”  


Alfred quirked a smile at that. He was starting to take a liking to this guy - sure, he was just overwhelming British and maybe a bit prissy, but he seemed funny and his eyes sparked with hidden mirth.  


Mrs. Bonam tittered on. “...He was originally supposed to stay in New York City, but got reassigned to our little paradise instead!” She clapped happily, beaming.  


“Yeah, the literal _arsehole_ of America,” the kid, Arthur, said with a sneer. Alfred’s smile dropped. What a prissy _bitch!_ Alfred's good impression of the Brit was gone - how dare he insult Alfred's hometown like that? Alfred sneezed twice in anger and wiped his running nose on his sleeve.  


Mrs. Bonam paused. “Did you say something, Mr. Kirkland?”  


Arthur stared despondently at the ground. “No.”  


"Alright, well, let’s give this new little fellow a hearty Midwestern welcome, shall we?” She began to clap in earnest, urging the class to join.  


A few students half-heartedly applauded, and one of the slackers in the back woke up from napping to add a loud “Huh?” to the pitiful welcome.  


Alfred watched carefully as Arthur headed to a seat near the back, dropping his bag with a loud thunk. How _dare_ Arthur insult Farmington like that? What a dick. Alfred turned back to his test, determined to put the dumb British kid, and his dumb British comments about Alfred’s hometown, out of his mind. He wiped his nose again, sniffling, and suppressed the urge to sneeze again. What the hell was going on - were his allergies acting up again? Alfred squeezed his eyes shut against the impending headache, willing his sniffles to go away. He thought he’d left his allergies behind him, along with his squeaky voice and wheezy breathing. All of those were locked safely behind him in middle school - or at least, he’d thought.  


He wiped his nose again, and risked another look back at the British Bitch, as Alfred decided to call him. Arthur was slouched back in his chair, taking his glasses off to rub his face. That’s when Alfred noticed two things: first, Arthur’s eyebrows were gigantic. Like monstrous, Frida Kahlo caterpillars situated over his eyes. Second, Arthur had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. Alfred couldn’t decide which was more startling, the crazy thick eyebrows or the tattoo. He took a closer look at the ink: from what he could make out, it showed a daisy with a wound at its center, painted blood dripping down Arthur’s wrist. Around the flower was one word: "Innocent."  


Ah. So that’s what daisies symbolized.  


Alfred went to erase his answer on his test, feeling like an observant genius.  


He risked another glance at the boy, taking in his outfit, his eyebrows, the contrast of his bright emerald eyes against his pale skin. This guy had no right to look so _interesting._ He was just a dumb British guy. Alfred realized he was staring just a beat too late, and found himself locking eyes with Arthur. He felt a jolt of something unfamiliar, something akin to electricity, even as the angry boy looked back at him incredulously. That’s when Alfred noticed the hot, oozy slide of liquid over his lips and chin, and as he watched blood splatter over his test, he felt an all-too-familiar wooziness and promptly passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of mystery, a bit of intrigue ... some flowers ... some Arthur Kirkland with a Fjallraven bag ... you know this is about to be good. Comments and kudos if you still like USUK even tho hetalia died long ago...


	2. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred's sniffles worsen, and he can't seem to get over this new kid ...

Alfred F. Jones was no stranger to bloody noses. As a kid, he was sickly: painfully skinny, extremely small, with a greenish pallor to his almost translucent skin. He really was quite a sight, sporting thick, red-framed glasses, crooked teeth and slight lisp. He was always afflicted with some illness, whether it was a simple cold or flu or something more serious, like pneumonia (the implications of which knocked out nearly six months of second grade) or bronchitis (which had him bedridden for most of sixth). His nose ran constantly and he almost always ended up wheezing halfway through a game of dodgeball during gym. More than a couple times a week, Alfred’s nose would bleed. No matter how hard his mother Amelia tried, almost every shirt he owned ended up stained.  


Doctors diagnosed him with asthma and a weak immune system, and tried to explain how he was allergic to basically everything on the planet. _Especially_ flowers. Flowers, they said, should be avoided like the plague. They prescribed medications and ointments and immunotherapy shots, they gave him inhalers and vaporizers and more than a couple epipens. The future, they said, didn’t look bright, but if Alfred managed to keep up a strict regimen, he’d live a long life.  


Alfred, stubborn boy that he was, met and exceeded expectations as he grew. He took his meds, got his shots, ate his vegetables, exercised like crazy, took speech therapy, and swapped his glasses for contacts; like magic, each of his afflictions faded away. Now all of his health problems were in the past. Sure, sometimes after a hard basketball practice, he had to puff on his inhaler. Whenever an illness spread around school, he was the first to catch it. But really, his past was behind him! In fact, he was strong now, stronger than most. He had grown tall and broad like his father, although he sported his mother’s trim waist. He could smell flowers and pet cats without any issues, and his bloody noses? Gone.  


Until now.

Now, Alfred sat with his head tilted back, a bloody tissue held to his face. He watched the ceiling fan in the nurse’s office make its creaky cyclical journey, counting each rotation. He got bored at around thirty, and groaned.  


“Can I go now?” He grumbled, and was struck by how much he sounded like a whiny child. The school nurse must’ve thought the same, because she responded with a curt, “No. You’ll stay here until the bleeding stops, and then we’ll figure out what is causing this.”  


Alfred groaned again. “Why, lady? I know how to handle this. It’s not like I ain’t had a bloody nose before.”  


The nurse huffed. “That may be true, but this is your third this week.”  


That was actually untrue, although Alfred made no move to correct her. It was actually his sixth this week, as he’d hid the other three by ducking into empty classrooms and janitors' closets. He hadn’t told anyone about those three, because he didn’t want everyone to pity him. He’d had more than enough pity during his childhood, thank you very much.  


So, the nurse really only knew about the two he’d had in school, and now this one, which had just randomly started in English class.  


“You’re sure you don’t know what’s causing these?” the nurse asked, typing quickly on her computer.  


“Uh-huh,” Alfred answered, bored.  


“And you weren’t getting nosebleeds for a couple years - this is a new occurrence?”  


“Yup,” he said, popping the “P.” “Started last week.” Now that he thought about it, it had started on Friday. That was the same day the mysterious asshole arrived. The guy was from … France? England? _One of those bitchy countries,_ he thought. He rolled his eyes at the memory of plaid pants and a too-big army green jacket, frowning. He started counting ceiling fan rotations again.  


“Okay, I’ve got all the info I need,” the nurse finally said, typing and clicking away at her computer. Alfred made to stand up and leave, but she continued: “I’ll just send a quick email to your father-”  


Alfred bolted upright. “What? No! Don’t do that!” He immediately regretted his actions, though, as a painful headrush swept over him and his nosebleed started anew, soaking his tissue. “Ow,” he said pitifully, squeezing his eyes shut against the headache.  


The nurse paused, regarding him. “This really seems like something your father needs to know about …”  


Alfred groaned. He didn’t want to get his parents mixed up in this. They were overbearing to begin with, but when his health was involved, they turned into monsters. One cough and they’d send him to the clinic. An upset stomach meant a trip to the ER. Sure, sometimes they were right (as in the unfortunate case of appendicitis he came down with last year), but most times, it was just a false alarm, and Alfred ended up humiliated and tired. No. It was best not to involve his parents. _Especially_ not his father. Some kids thought Professor Jones was awesome, but Alfred knew he was just a nerd who was into history and airplanes. A nerd who, when his son got sick, went completely overboard, researching and administering solutions no matter how unorthodox. No sir. Alfred was not going to involve his father.  


“Don’t tell my dad, please,” he begged, hoping he sounded pitiful enough. “I’m fine. This isn’t a big deal.”  


Alfred heard the click of a mouse, and sighed sadly. He was doomed. “I’m sorry, kiddo. Professor Jones needs to know. Especially with…”  


Alfred cracked open an eye to squint at the nurse. “Especially with what?”  


The nurse’s face reddened, and she ducked her head. “Sorry. Nothing. You are free to go now.”  


Alfred shook his head. 

Nurses, man.

Then he wobbled to his feet, stuffed a clean tissue up his nose, and left the room.  


____  


Weeks passed. Alfred’s ailments continued, and his senior year only seemed to stretch, interminably long. He may have been miserable, but there was one thing that kept him going - however much he hated it. He had purpose. His newfound hobby? Spying. Well, not spying, just … looking. Observing. He liked to pretend he was looking at everyone, observing every student at Farmington High, but really … he was just spying on Arthur.  


"I'm _NOT_ spying," he whispered emphatically, crossing his arms angrily.  


"You are, too," Martha retorted. Martha was his best friend and partner in crime, and he almost considered her his sister. People did indeed insist that the pair looked eerily similar, and most everyone at Farmington High thought Martha was the female version of Alfred. Alfred could definitely see the resemblance as he stared her down: her sharp jawline and soft blue eyes were similar to his, and their hairstyles were almost identical in color and texture - golden blonde and blindingly shiny. They almost had the same cut, too, especially since Martha had hacked hers into a messy pixie cut with safety scissors. "You're totally spying."  


Alfred sputtered indignantly. "I - I'm not! I'm just … uh. Observing. For research purposes."  


Martha rolled her eyes, and they both looked back at the source of Alfred's interest: Arthur, the British foreign exchange student.  


Throughout the last few weeks, Alfred's brain was consumed with an all-encompassing need to know everything about Arthur. It had started with the clothes. At first, Alfred told himself he was just intrigued by Arthur's pants - a strange sentiment to begin with, but one he upheld nonetheless. Arthur's pants came in a range of patterns and colors, often plaid, sometimes ripped or distressed, and always, _ALWAYS,_ tight. Alfred's mind was blown. No boy that he had ever seen wore pants that tight. His dad was a professor, and he regularly wore suits and dress pants - but Alfred had never seen dress pants like these. They hugged Arthur's skinny hips like a vise; they strained over his calves and his …  


Martha elbowed him. "Hey! Quit staring at his ass!"  


"Wh- what?" Alfred spat, snapping from his trance. "I was just looking at his … at his … pants!"  


Martha scoffed. "Right. You're not spying on him, and you're not checking out his butt."  


Alfred's face reddened. The two of them had been studying in the library during their open period, or at least, they _HAD_ been studying until Arthur entered the library and began browsing through the poetry section. Then, any notion of schoolwork, and consequently, all hope of productivity, had been lost. Alfred tore his eyes away from the Brit, casting a pitiful look at his best friend. "I wasn't …"  


"Yeah, yeah," Martha cut him off. "You just like his pants. We know. You won't shut up about his goddamn pants!" Martha said angrily. "So, you aren't spying. Well then. What kind of pants was the _British Bitch_ wearing yesterday?"  


"Green and black plaid," Alfred answered immediately, chin resting thoughtfully on his hand.  


"And the day before that?"  


"Funky jeans with rips in the knees," he said nonchalantly, distracted by Arthur as he reached for a novel on the top shelf.  


"And before that?"  


"Blue and red plaid," Alfred said easily. Martha waved a hand in front of his face, and he snapped back to reality. He blushed furiously as he realized just how ridiculous he was acting, and how obsessed he sounded.  


"And you claim you're not spying! Ha!" Martha grinned and punched him on the shoulder. "Not spying, my ass."  


Her quips fell on deaf ears, though, as Alfred was already lost in thought, gazing across the room at Arthur.  


"Or should I say, _HIS_ ass," she said bitterly, returning to her homework.  


So, maybe Alfred was spying on Arthur. And maybe it wasn't just about his pants. It was more so about his whole … persona. The kid was unapologetic in dress, showing up to school in all manner of outfits. Sometimes he looked like he'd stepped off the cover of _Rolling Stone._ Other days he dressed like an Oxford Harry Potter. Most days, he just wore whatever. The guy was so confident, but in such an understated way. He oozed cool. Alfred couldn't understand how the guy pulled outfits together - he wore clashing colors and clothes that looked just too big. Especially that army green jacket. The thing was huge, swaddling the boy like a parka. It was dumb, in Alfred's opinion. He did _not_ want to try it on. He did _not_ think about it constantly, and how if he put it on it would probably fit perfectly and smell like -  


"Dude!"  


"I'm not thinking about trying on his jacket, why would you say that? I swear, Martha-"  


Martha fixed him with a disgruntled look. "Huh? I didn't say anything about that."  


"Oh."  


"I was going to tell you your nose is bleeding again."  


"What?" Alfred flung his chair backward and stood up hurriedly, rushing to the front of the library where he knew the tissues were. "Shit." He held a hand to his nose, feeling blood, warm and slippery, work it's way down his face and wrist. Why was this happening to him? What had him so _sick?_  


As he stuffed tissues up his nose, he risked a glance back at the poetry section. There he was, the British Bitch, nose deep in a thick volume, round glasses perched atop his head, nestled in his hair. Alfred had been keeping careful track of Arthur’s hair, along with the clothes - for research purposes only, of course - and was intimately familiar with that bed of silver-white curls, the tips now just barely red. The once bright red dye had faded drastically throughout the last week, and now Arthur looked closer to normal. Although, he’d never be normal. Obviously, his eyes were still too green, his skin strangely shiny and too close in resemblance to marble, and his nose too pointy. And he was too _bitchy!_  


Alfred glared at Arthur. His nosebleeds were probably that guy's fault. God, Alfred hated him. He huffed angrily, wiping blood off his chin and hands. Stupid British guy. All prissy, and pointy, and captivativing…  


At that moment, Arthur looked up from his book. The two made eye contact, and Alfred tried to channel all of his hatred through his eyes. He probably appeared pretty ridiculous, with his arms crossed, nose full of red tissues, dried blood spattered over his bright blue letterman's jacket. But he didn't care. He wanted Arthur to feel his resentment. Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side, questioning. A familiar jolt of electricity surged through Alfred, and he blinked. What was going on?  


He finally looked away, feeling heat in his cheeks. Actually, he felt heat … everywhere. He looked down at his hands, slightly panicked, and found them splotchy and red. "What the…"  


He quickly shucked off his coat, examining his arms. Was that … a rash? Was he having an allergic reaction? Now, of all times? He was trying to intimidate his nemesis, for Christ’s sake! Alfred refrained from scratching the itchy, angry rash. He hadn't had to deal with something like this for upwards of five years. How annoying. What on Earth could have triggered it?  


He glanced back up at Arthur, only to find the poetry section empty.  


"Shit."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a whole lot of action yet - just a little sexual tension, you know ... get ready for chapter three though, we're really going to get the ball(s) rolling...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated but not required ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Rash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred has to stop hiding his sickness from his parents - but it turns out they're hiding something, too ...

“You’re sure you don’t want to tell your parents?” Martha whispered, leaning over her desk to get closer to Alfred.  


They were sitting in the back of Mrs. Bonam’s English class, bored to tears as per usual. Mrs. Bonam herself even looked bored, eyes glazed over as she watched her class watch _Hamlet,_ wobbily projected onto the whiteboard.  


“I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Alfred whispered back, scratching at the raised crimson bumps covering his hands. On the screen, Ophelia began to sing, frighteningly loud, and Martha took the opportunity to scoot her desk closer to Alfred. Martha, Alfred noted, had started dressing up more. Normally, she dressed casual, even sloppy: leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, ratty jeans and a t-shirt. Today, though, she was wearing a corduroy skirt (Alfred now knew what corduroy was, because of watching Arthur) and a sweater with a plunging neckline. Now that he noticed her outfit, he couldn’t look away. Had Martha ever put that much cleavage on display? As she leaned into Alfred’s personal space, he looked away in alarm.  


“Who are you and what did you do with Martha?” he asked, taking in her appearance with increasing consternation. She rolled her eyes at him, and he noticed her lashes were darker and longer, and there was something shiny on her eyelids. “What the - Martha, are you wearing _makeup?_ ”  


Martha shushed him, seething. “Shut up! Shut up, Alfred!” Even in the relative darkness of the classroom, he could see a blush blooming across her cheeks. He and Martha were similar in that way: their fair skin would blaze a fiery red within a moment’s notice, and they both got flustered easily.  


Martha scanned the room, making sure no one had overheard their conversation. “I just felt like dressing up today, okay?”  


Alfred fixed her with a look of disbelief. He knew Martha too well to believe that. “Who is it?” he asked, teasing.  


“No one! It’s no one! I’m not … ugh!” She stuck out her tongue at Alfred, adjusting her sweater. “Let me see your hands. Is it worse than last week?” she asked, a lame attempt at changing the subject. She grabbed Alfred’s hands, examining them in the dim light of the classroom.  


It had been nearly a week since Alfred’s rash had set in, and he was trying his best to pretend everything was fine.  


“It’s … maybe worse than last week.” Alfred really didn’t want to tell her that within the last few days, the rash had spread from his hands and arms to his entire body. He was so itchy he thought he’d go mad. Not unlike Ophelia.  


Martha had been his best friend since before he could remember, and therefore remembered the rougher parts of his upbringing. She’d visited him when he was bedridden, reading comic books to him, telling him stupid jokes that made him laugh until he wheezed. She had always carried an inhaler and an epipen in her bookbag, and knew exactly when Alfred was coming down with something.  


“This is just like that time in fourth grade,” she whispered, letting go of Alfred’s hands. The incident she was referencing involved a secret admirer, a surprise Valentine’s Day bouquet, a trip to the emergency room, and a case of hives that he couldn’t shake for nearly two weeks.  


“Aw, man. Don’t remind me,” Alfred replied, shuddering. “I’ve never been so itchy in my entire life.” Well, until now. He was probably itchier right at that moment, but he wasn’t about to tell Martha that. He didn’t want to worry her.  


“Shhh!”  


Mrs. Bonam finally noticed the two of them huddled together talking, and sent them a glare. “You two! Lovebirds! Quit yackin’!”  


Alfred chuckled, and Martha reluctantly slid her desk further away from him. He turned to her, about to remark on how ridiculous Mrs. Bonam was acting, when he noticed the bright blush painted on Martha's cheeks. Was she really embarrassed by …? Or, maybe she really was dressed to impress someone. His brow furrowed in confusion. Martha … and him? But …  


Alfred checked the faces of his classmates for any eavesdroppers, but found them all sleeping or staring blankly at the whiteboard. There had to be someone other than himself that had caught Martha's eye, some boy who liked cubist art and cringey anime. Those were Martha's two favorite topics of conversation, both of which bored Alfred nearly to death. He scanned the room, wondering who it could be. His eyes eventually stopped on Arthur Kirkland. As they always did.  


A queasy feeling bloomed in Alfred's stomach. Martha couldn't like the _British Bitch,_ could she? He was too … snooty. She wouldn't do well with such an uppity prick of a guy. And they just … wouldn't match up, at least in Alfred's mind. No, they were definitely incompatible. Arthur was so slight, and pale, and pointy. He needed someone strong and tall to offset all his sharp edges. And frankly, the guy frowned too much. Martha frowned a lot, too, so that wouldn't work. Arthur needed to be with someone more like Alfred, who's sunny disposition and disarming smile could work wonders. And plus, Arthur was just too cool for Martha. Martha was a massive nerd. She memorized the _Star Wars_ visual dictionary with Alfred back in elementary school. Yep - it was decided. Martha couldn't like Arthur. In fact, no one could like Arthur. He was just too … too … interesting.  


Alfred turned back to _Hamlet,_ determined to stop thinking about Arthur or Martha. He scratched absently at his rash, which had somehow gotten more itchy within the last couple minutes. On screen, Ophelia handed out flowers like candy, explaining in rapid prose: "There’s fennel for you, and columbines.—There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me!"  


Alfred frowned, trying to remember what each flower symbolized. He really couldn't remember a thing from _Hamlet._ He'd barely passed the test from a couple weeks ago.  


Ophelia continued, telling her brother Laertes, "And there’s a daisy, and I'll give you some violets, too."  


Huh. Daisies. Alfred distinctly remembered daisies, now. He'd stared at Arthur's tattoo for what seemed like years, and its image was burned into his memory. Still, he wondered if he could get another look, just to see if anything had changed. He surreptitiously cast a glance over his shoulder, unsubtly checking out the Brit. Today, Arthur was clad in a black turtleneck that seemed way too tight to be comfortable, burgundy dress pants, and pointy shoes that Alfred couldn't remember the name of. Loaves? Something like that. Arthur's loaves had little dangly things on them, which Alfred found quite amusing. Why didn't he just wear sneakers like everyone else? Alfred stopped for a moment to consider how the black shirt looked against Arthur's pale skin, making it seem creamier and smoother than usual. He wondered if that skin was as soft and smooth as it looked. He wondered if Arthur was like that all over, pale and glowing on his chest and his stomach and his …  


Alfred shook his head, stopping his train of thought in its tracks. _What the fuck, man?_ He scolded himself. What was he doing thinking about another boy's skin? That was _super_ weird. Alfred shook his head again, scratching at his rash. He zoned in on the tattoo, which was on full display today. Usually it was covered by the too-long sleeves of Arthur's army jacket, but now in the dim light he could see the daisy, its petals bright white, red blood dripping down from its center over Arthur's wrist. Alfred wondered if the trail of blood kept going, past his wrist, over his smooth arm, down his pointy elbow. He officially elected that Arthur needed to stop wearing long sleeves all the time. For research purposes, obviously.  


The more he looked at Arthur, the more he noticed his symptoms worsening. He could feel the pressure in his sinuses building, and his eyes pricked painfully. His rash was nearly unbearable, and his normal headache went from dully pulsing to throbbing. Man, his life sucked.  


Suddenly the bell rang, and students around him jumped from their seats, gathering bags and books and filing out the door. He blinked dazedly, wanting nothing more than some Benadryl and a nap.  


"Hey," Martha said, laying a hand on his forearm. "You're not looking so good."  


"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Alfred retorted, rubbing his eyes.  


Martha sighed. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I really think you should talk to your parents. Especially your dad."  


"Martha, no, I really don't want t-"  


"Hey." She was in Stern Martha mode. It was all business now. "Tell your dad about this, or I will."  


Alfred let out a pitiful whimper. "Marthaaa…" he began, lip quivering.  


"Alfred! Don't start with me!" She really was serious, now. "You have to tell him, because it probably has to do with the c-"  


She abruptly cut herself off.  


Alfred was intrigued, now. "Has to do with what?"  


Martha looked away, feigning indifference. "Um. Nothing. Just … tell your dad."  


Alfred frowned. What was she talking about? It seemed like the whole world was keeping secrets from him. First the school nurse. Now Martha. Was he afflicted with something stranger than a plain old allergic reaction?  


He groaned, gathering his things and shoving them haphazardly into his bookbag. Off to talk to his father, and drink some latest-and-greatest cure-all juice, or something equally as disgusting.  


So absorbed in his own troubles, he failed to notice a figure near the back of the room, watching him intently with narrowed eyes. The boy adjusted his glasses, a bright look of intrigue in his emerald eyes. He followed Alfred out of the room, tasseled loafers clicking.  


___

"So, uh. Dad," Alfred began. He was stood in his father's study, shuffling his Nikes nervously against the polished mahogany floorboards. He'd finally decided to take Martha's advice and talk to his parents about his ailments. If this rash persisted any longer, he might just go mad.  


"Yes?" Professor Jones answered, his bespectacled face popping up from behind a towering stack of papers and files. "What's up, kid?"  


Normally, Alfred's father was an impressive sight. He was a head taller than nearly everyone at 6 and a half feet tall, with a surprisingly defined physique for a man his age. He had a full head of shiny hair, like a blonde Superman. Alfred had inherited that same hair, although his father's was starting to darken to match his well-trimmed beard. Today, though, James Jones looked less than impressive. In fact, the man looked a mess. His red horn-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his nose, and his normally quaffed hair stuck up oddly. His sweater was rumpled, and as he stood up, Alfred noted that it was not only unwashed, it was also on backwards.  


Alfred cleared his throat. "So. I wanted to tell you something."  


"Shit,” his father immediately said. “You got someone pregnant?"  


Alfred gasped. "What? Dad! No -"  


His father grinned wickedly. _"You're_ pregnant?"  


"Jesus! No! Dad. That's not -"  


"Finally got a boyfriend, then?" James teased, knowing how to get Alfred flustered.  


"Dad, I'm not -" Alfred floundered helplessly. His mind flitted to Arthur, in his unique outfits and his unnaturally tight pants. Alfred blushed at the thought, then scowled. "I am _not_ gay. Jeez."  


Alfred cleared his throat, scratching at the rash that had begun creeping up his neck.  


"Ah. Yes. Well, I may or may not have a tiny cold. And maybe a little rash. Nothing serious, though."  


Alfred's father smiled tiredly and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. "I know, kid."  


"You … know?" That was a slightly different reaction than Alfred was expecting.  


"Uhh, yeah, Alfie. Me and your mother are up all night listening to your coughing."  


"Oh." Alfred grimaced. "Uh. Sorry about that." He paused, considering. "Why didn't you … say anything?"  


His father rubbed his face again, sighing. "Well, son. You’re old enough to handle it. It’s just a routine cold.”  


Alfred pursed his lips, fixing his father with a suspicious look. “A routine cold?”  


Alfred knew his father was hiding something from him - the look in his tired eyes betrayed him. “Yeah, kid. Nothing to worry about, you’ll get through it,” he said with forced nonchalance.  


“But, Dad -” Alfred protested. “I haven’t been sick like this in _years.”_  


“Yeah, well …” his father said, scrubbing at his beard. “Everything is just fine -”  


Just then, the door to the study creaked open, and in walked Alfred's mother, Amelia Jones. Her strawberry blonde bob was near perfect, as was her red lipstick, pressed pantsuit, and manicured nails. She surveyed the scene: books thrown open, piles of papers haphazardly strewn about, her disheveled husband, her confused son. She sighed. “So, have you told him?”  


"Told me what?" Alfred asked quickly. His parents exchanged a charged look.  


"Does this have anything to do with the school nurse withholding some sort of information?” Alfred continued, desperate for answers. His parents remained silent, still exchanging nods and frowns. “And Martha, too?"  


Amelia exhaled testily through her nose, upset with her husband. She started with, “Well, sweetie-” but was immediately cut off by James, his short but emphatic “No!” resounding in the small space.  


James hastily stood and moved toward Amelia, loose papers fluttering in his wake. He grabbed her by the shoulder, imploring her to look at him. “We are _not_ having this discussion. Not now.”  


Amelia scoffed. “Not _now,_ James? Then _when?_ We have to tell him at some point!”  


“Tell me _WHAT?!”_ Alfred shouted, interrupting their conversation.  


James ignored his son, voice rising. ”I believe in _facts._ I believe in _truth._ I do not believe in this, this -” he gestured at Alfred, searching for words. “This _hogwash._ I’m not going to tell my son some _wives’ tale_ because quite frankly, it isn’t true!”  


Amelia crossed her arms in defiance. “James, we’ve talked about this - real or not, Alfred deserves to know!”  


“Deserves to know WHAT?” Alfred shouted. Finally, his parents turned to him, as if just remembering his presence in the room. James huffed out a breath, narrowing his eyes. “Nothing, kid,” he said. “Nothing important.” Then he stalked out of his own study.  


Alfred turned to Amelia, confusion written across his features. “Ma, what the hell is going on? A wives’ tale? About what? And why doesn’t Dad want me to kno-”  


His mother cut him off. “Listen, sweetheart. I’m afraid I have to respect your father’s wishes, so I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.” She cast a furtive look over her shoulder. “But I can tell you that it’s not a wives’ tale - I know it’s true, your uncle had it, too. I know your father has record of it somewhere …” From within the house, James stomped angrily. Amelia frowned, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Look through his study. It has to be in here. The older the book, the better,” she said, an ominous glint in her eye. “That’s all I can say.”

___  


In the wee hours of the morning, James Jones’ study looked eerie, and disturbingly so - the moonlight illuminated little, its silvery beams filtering in through tall windows, leaving the furniture and decor in shadow. Alfred crept carefully over stacks of books and piles of papers, avoiding creaky mahogany floorboards and skirting around dark velvet furniture. Why his father chose to decorate his study like a haunted Victorian mansion, Alfred would never know. Couldn’t James have picked a more cheery color scheme, or at least avoided spooky Gothic elements? Alfred shuddered as his shoulder brushed past a cobweb on the hood mould of a window.  


Searching for the book would take hours, Alfred knew, especially with the vague directions his mother had given him. But he had to find it - he had to get to the bottom of this. He was sick, and he knew it wasn’t a “routine cold” as his father had said. No, something stranger was afoot, and everyone else seemed to know what was going on except for him.  


As he searched through his father’s bookshelves in the pale moonlight, certain instances played in his mind on loop: the school nurse, her eyes widening as she realized she was about to say too much; Martha, cutting herself off abruptly; his parents, eyes locked as they silently argued. What did everyone know that he didn’t?  


Mind racing, he almost didn’t notice a book shoved haphazardly behind the others, hidden from view. He pulled it out, squinting at it in the darkness. The book was more like an ancient tome you'd see in a blockbuster than a book, and as he placed it on the tabletop and started rifling through the pages, a cloud of dust bloomed in the air. Alfred's eyes began to water as he pored over the pages, and he had to step away and sneeze a couple of times before he could return.  


Alfred bent over the book, squinting. Most of the yellowing pages were blank - perhaps it was a journal? He continued perusing. Finally, he turned to a page full of tiny, neat script. He whispered the first line aloud. "The Curse of … Amore Florum." He paused. "Huh?"  


His eyes trailed down the page, stopping at what looked like a poem handwritten in the same neat handwriting scrawl:  


_Love is blind,_  


_The world: unkind,_  


_Flowers bloom in May._  


_This family's gloom_  


_A child of whom_  


_Will suffer night and day._  


_The curse will hold_  


_Until they're cold_  


_And rotting in the grave,_  


_Sickness consume_  


_Till flowers bloom_  


_When true love finds its way._  


"The hell is this?” Alfred muttered, scanning the page for more information. A poem about a curse? A family curse? Was he …?  


Alfred quickly re-read the poem, attempting to make sense of it. What was the meaning? His eyes lingered on “cold and rotting in the grave,” and “sickness consume.” God, he hoped this wasn’t about him.  


The next few pages were filled with that same poem, rewritten in cramped penmanship, much different than the first page. Alfred frowned. Someone else wrote in the journal? He kept flipping, only to find the poem rewritten hundreds of times by countless different hands. Some poems had certain words or phrases circled, others had parts scribbled out. One was accompanied by a full page of doodles, tiny birds and insects flying around groups of flowers. _Weird._ As he read, he noticed with alarm that each poem was dated. His eyes widened in alarm as he read some of the dates: June 3rd, 1632; August, 1680; October, 1745.  


Alfred kept flipping, finding the same poem everywhere. He began to notice initials by some of the poems, even full names. He didn’t recognize any of the first names, but the surname was always the same: Jones. Was this a family journal? A family doodle book? How _old_ was this thing?  


He was tempted to close the book and give up, but he soon flipped to a new page written in bright red ink. The poem was there, of course, but next to it were notes - a translation? Alfred bent over the words excitedly. Just as he began to read, though, he heard the faint creak of the staircase outside the door.  


_”Shit.”_  


Alfred darted out of his father’s study, ancient journal in hand. He’d get to the bottom of this tomorrow.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's starting to get spicy now, ladies and germs. Also, James is supposed to look like Captain America (with a beard) for obvious reasons. I know he is lowkey a terrible person in this chapter, but he's just an angry male. He'll get better. Also also, Amelia is Fem!America, although I made her a little more like Scarlett Johansson (lol there's a pattern developing here). But yeah, that's why Martha isn't named Amelia, because I couldn't have two Fem!Americas, ya know?


	4. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred finally figures out what everyone has been keeping from him ... but it's not quite the answer he wanted.

”I _really_ wish I hadn’t told my parents,” Alfred said, slamming the mysterious journal down on the table.  


Martha looked up at Alfred, bewildered. “What? Why? Did they make you go to the ER or something?”  


Alfred glared at her, then cast his gaze down at the book. She didn’t get the hint, so he repeated the gesture. She finally looked away from her homework and noticed it, and her eyes widened.  


“Whoa - what is that?”  


Alfred sighed. “Y’know… I’m not entirely sure. My mom told me to steal it from my dad’s study after they had an argument about whether or not to tell me some sort of secret."  


Martha's face screwed up in confusion. "So, you still don't know the secret?"  


"Well…" Alfred said, then flipped the book open to the red-inked page. The bright words of the poem looked garish in the daylight. "Look at this."  


Martha bent to study the proffered journal, her eyes scanning the poem. As she read, her face morphed from excitement to solemnity. “So… this is it, huh.”  


“What?” Alfred said, confused. “This is what?”  


“The curse. _Amore Florum Maledictus.”_  


“Excuse me?”  


Martha sighed. “Everyone knows about it - the old Jones curse. I thought your parents would’ve told you by now …” she cast a dark look toward the sky, “but I guess they didn’t. They probably want me to keep my mouth shut, but you found the book, so …” She appeared to be grappling with herself, deciding whether or not to share. Her eyes flickered over the poem again, and she huffed. “Well - someone has to tell you. It may as well be me.”  


“Martha, spit it out right now or I swear to god -”  


“Shh!” Martha said, looking around the library furtively. “Keep your voice down. I’ll tell you, but we can’t let anyone overhear. If people know …” she shuddered. “Never mind.”  


The pair leaned toward each other, and Martha raised her laptop screen for privacy. Once she deemed the arrangement secretive enough, she began:  


“Your parents kept this from you for a long time, and they told me to as well. It’s been difficult - I’m sure a lot of folks around town have almost let it slip. But to put it plainly, Alfred… you’re cursed.”  


Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “I’m … what?”  


She recited the name of the curse again, Latin floating off her tongue as if she’d said it a million times. _“Amore Florum Maledictus._ It’s been in your family for generations - hundreds of years - and no one knows how it came about. But basically … well, you get really sick and then, like a flower, you wilt and … uh …”  


Alfred cut her off. “What? Wilt and die? Is that it? Because I’m pretty sure that already happened to me when I was little.”  


Martha’s expression darkened. “No, Alfred. Every Jones that has ever been afflicted with _Amore Florum Maledictus_ has gotten sick - really, really sick - and died.”  


Scanning his friend’s face, he noted her morose expression and felt a slight twinge of panic. He recalled the journal, with hundreds of poems written on its pages - each dated. Were those the dates … of when each person had _died?_ He shook his head, scratching his rash roughly. "Martha, I'm sorry. This is crazy. Curses aren't real! Magic isn't real. This is like young adult novel garbage or something.. Hell, Santa isn't even real! You expect me to believe any of this is _real?"_  


Martha shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was real. I thought it was just some old town legend, y’know? As a kid, I thought it was sort of cool - my best friend could be cursed, like we were in Indiana Jones or something. But when you got that bloody nose a week ago … and now this rash, and this cold … I dunno, man. It sure seems real.”  


Alfred had never seen his friend so solemn. He swallowed nervously. "A-alright. Go on."  


Martha sighed. “That’s it, man. You’re cursed, probably. So you’re probably going to …” she trailed off, despondent.  


“Oh, _please.”_ Alfred said, startling Martha. “That _can’t_ be it. Even if this curse is real, and even if I do have it - there has to be some way out of it. Curses always have a loophole, right? Or like, a condition, a requirement? Something that has to be done within 24 hours or something?”  


“This isn’t a movie, Alfie,” Martha said tiredly.  


“Right, I know, but this _can’t_ be it,” Alfred replied, a note of desperation in his voice. He pulled the old journal closer. “Let’s look at the poem again. There has to be something here, some caveat, something...”  


Martha looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t know there was a poem. I thought it was just a plain old curse. But hey,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Maybe there will be something helpful in here.”  


He nodded, and began with the first stanza. _“Love is blind, the world, unkind; flowers bloom in May.”_ He paused. “Huh. That’s like … just a bunch of true statements. Not very helpful, is it?” He looked to Martha, who nodded in agreement. “Maybe the next part?”  


_“This family’s gloom, a child of whom will suffer night and day._ Gee, that’s wonderful.” The first stanza was unmarked - odd - but the second was marked up, with bold notes in the margins. The notes read: _”Gloom = curse/mistake… Ancestors messed up … Mayflower?"_ Alfred frowned. “Okay, so ‘this family’s gloom’ must be some mistake my family made long ago. Huh. On the Mayflower? Was the mistake coming over on the Mayflower?”  


Martha shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno!”  


“Huh, so a ‘child of whom will suffer,’ that must be my family members who get cursed. Hmm,” he continued to read. “The next bit goes, _'This curse will hold until they're cold and rotting in the grave.'_ I guess that’s just a morbid way to say there's no cure?”  


Martha nodded. “Yeah. It must mean it's a part of you until you die."  


Alfred balked. "Great," he said sarcastically - although his brow creased with worry.  


They soldiered on. "Alright. The final stanza says' _’sickness consume, till flowers bloom, and true love finds its way.'_ That’s a lot to unpack,” he said, sitting back with a sigh. “But nothing to get me out of it.”  


Martha stared at the final stanza, consternation written across her features. She rubbed a hand through her pixie cut, looking like she once again wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if she should. Her blue eyes turned steely, and she clenched her fists. “Listen, Alfred, there’s one part I didn’t tell you about.”  


“What? I thought you said that was it, that was everything?”  


“This part … well, I always thought it was bullshit, y’know? It just sounded so, so … weird. But now that I’ve read that last part …”  


“What? What is it?”  


Martha leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard that the only way to get out of the curse is to find your _soulmate.”_  


Alfred choked. “My _what?”_  


“What I’ve heard is that the curse manifests as sickness - allergies, colds, rashes, headaches. The sort of stuff you've had to deal with your whole life. And apparently, when your soulmate gets near you, all of your ailments worsen."  


"Hold up. My _soulmate?_ Are you for real?" Alfred questioned, dubious.  


"Listen, Alfred, I thought the same thing, but with the last stanza … _’sickness consume, till flowers bloom, when true love finds its way.’_ It must be.” She sucked in a breath. “What I’ve heard, is that if a cursed Jones finds their soulmate, flowers bloom all over their skin, and the curse lifts.”  


Alfred gave her a look. “Flowers bloom on their skin? Bruh, I would die from that. I’m allergic to literally every flower. Remember?”  


Martha sighed. “Hey, that’s just what I’ve heard. Rumors. I have no idea if it’s real, but that final stanza sure makes it seem so. All I know is apparently, when your soulmate touches you, all of your sickness vanishes like it was never there at all.”  


“Really,” Alfred breathed, eyes narrowed.  


Martha almost laughed. “I know what you’re thinking! Not sexually, man. Just any touch. They could just brush by you whilst walking past, or tap you on the shoulder, or anything. And I’ve heard … at least, what your mom said once about Francis … what I’ve heard is the flowers are like tattoos, I guess. Living, moving tattoos.”  


“Great Uncle Francis?” Alfred asked, flabbergasted. “Why did my mom tell you about him, but not me?”  


They both knew the answer to that - it was the very reason everyone else in Farmington knew about the curse, and Alfred didn’t. Alfred sighed, dejected. "So, are these … tattoos … are they permanent?"  


"I have no idea, man.”  


They lapsed into silence. The air felt heavy. Alfred took a moment to collect himself, deep in thought. He couldn't believe this was something that was happening to him, Alfred F. Jones. He was just a normal kid! He had friends, and basketball practice, and he was sort of popular in his little school. He was sick, yeah, sometimes, but he wasn't some freak with magic flower tattoos. He couldn't believe it. And the more he considered it, he couldn't believe he hadn't been told earlier. Why had his parents kept this from him for so long?  


"Why didn't anyone tell me earlier?" he asked, voice cracking.  


Martha shook her head. “I’m sorry. I guess your parents never thought the timing was right. Maybe they were waiting … maybe they were hoping the last part was true, and they wanted to find … y’know...”  


Alfred froze, his anger dissipating. It all clicked into place. The nosebleeds. The coughing. The rash, the headaches. Did that mean ….?  


"Martha, my soulmate _must_ be in school with us! She must've realized how she felt about me on that day, the day with the nosebleed, in English! You remember, right? That's what triggered my symptoms!"  


Alfred was reeling. That day, in English … he'd been taking a test, trying to remember the symbolism of flowers. How ironic. Had someone been admiring him from afar? Was it … _Martha?_  


He blushed a deep crimson. It couldn’t be, right? Except … she had been dressing up lately, which always meant she was trying to impress someone. And the way she looked at him, sometimes ...  


"I know that look,” Martha said, her eyes glinting with newfound hope. “Do you think you know who it is?" she asked, leaning forward eagerly.  


"I …" Alfred said, at a loss. "I think so?"  


"Who?"  


Alfred blushed harder. Oh God. It couldn’t be Martha, right? "Is it okay if I … don't want to tell you just yet?"  


Martha smiled. "Yeah. Of course."  


Alfred sighed sadly. "Do you think the curse will go away, even if I… if I don't like them back?"  


Martha contemplated for a bit."I suppose you'll find yourself liking them back eventually. It is quite literally destiny."  


Alfred couldn't imagine ever liking Martha. Not in that way. She was his childhood best friend, his partner in crime! She was like a female version of him. That was sort of creepy, right?  


"I … guess so."  


"Well. There's only one way to find out," Martha said, the corners of her lips turned up into a smile.  


"To find out … oh. If she's the one."  


He could reach out right now and see if Martha was the one. It could be over and done with. He almost did, his hand reaching out toward Martha’s arm, resting on the table…  


He quickly retracted his hand. He didn’t want to know.  


He tried to laugh, but failed. Instead, his brows furrowed, and he felt his lip begin to quiver. Was he … crying?  


"Aw, Alfie. Hey, it's alright. It’s okay …"  


Tears began to roll down Alfred's cheeks in earnest. “I don’t wanna be cursed,” he mumbled. He didn't want to have to find out who he was "destined" to be with. He didn't want to be sick anymore, and he certainly didn't want to be _cursed._ He just wanted his life to go back to normal.  


Martha handed him a tissue. "We'll get this figured out, don't you worry. You just need to experiment."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is - he's cursed. Is this a soulmate fic? Sort of. Maybe. Is Alfred really stupid, thinking Martha is his soulmate? Yes. Yes he is.


	5. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred deliberates on how to stop the curse - and who his soulmate is... (spoilers: he's wrong, because he's an idiot)

_Well, here goes,_ Alfred thought, shaking his head. He clutched his bookbag straps tightly and strode into school.  


Everything was the same, always the same, except that it was - well, completely different. Alfred’s dumb jock friends waved and shouted at him as he passed. Ivan, a mountain of a guy who played post, bounded over and punched him on the arm, as was the norm. The only Japanese kid in the school who everyone called Honda (Farmington kind of sucked, Alfred couldn’t lie) greeted him with his usual excitement, insisting on a high-five. The cheerleaders giggled. The band kids vaped. A group of freshmen walked on the wrong side of the hallway, and one ran headlong into him. The poor kid ran away red as a brick, too mortified to say anything.  


So, everything was exactly the same as it had been every other Tuesday morning of his senior year. Except … Alfred was _worried._ Panicked, even. Every time someone touched him, he jumped. After Ivan punched him, he yelped and rushed to the bathroom. He stripped of his coat and rolled up his sleeves, checking his body for any sign or semblance of flowers on his skin. But … of course, nothing had changed. The same thing happened after the high-five, and the freshman running into him. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, and he wasn't sure how it was supposed to feel when "the one" touched him, but he was certainly prepared for it. He spent what felt like hours staring into the mirror, hoping for a glimpse, a scant doodle of a flower, even a vague outline of a leaf. Every time he checked, though, he left the bathroom the same as he’d entered it, equal parts relieved and disappointed.  


So, nothing had changed, and in that same vein, nothing changed. The agony of a persistent headache and the infuriating itch of his rash had him grumpy, and the worry and fear of finding out - or, not finding out - who his soulmate was had him on edge.  


He really didn’t care who it was, when it came down to it. He was a bit disappointed that the person he was destined to be with forever lived in Farmington, and went to his high school. Not that there was anything wrong with Farmington, of course. He was fiercely proud of his hometown, and loved the simplicity of rural American life. He'd always hoped, though, that he’d find someone from outside of Farmington. Yes, he’d settle there one day, and raise a family, just as countless generations of Joneses before him had, and yes, he was more than excited for that day to come. But he’d always planned on going to college somewhere far away - maybe New York, that glittering city of dreams, or Los Angeles, that glory-filled land of stars and giants. His plan was to travel the world, see the sights. He’d always hoped, in the back of his mind, that on his fantastic travels, he’d encounter the one - someone who made his heart stop, his mind race. Alfred’s master plan had always been to convince his mysterious, exotic lover to settle with him in Farmington. He knew it would work - he was very charismatic. And Farmington, despite it’s sort of silly name, was quite lovely. He had played out this fantasy in his head so many times, he'd forgotten that it wasn't reality. He wanted it to happen more than he was willing to admit. But now, knowing that his real, actual, forever-and-ever soulmate was in the same building as he was, and that he’d perhaps known them his whole life? It was a little disappointing.  


All Alfred cared about at the present moment, though, was making sure it wasn’t Martha. He wasn’t an overtly religious guy, but last night, after his parents broke the news, Alfred sent up what felt like a million prayers, imploring God to make sure Martha wasn’t the one.  


Martha couldn’t be his soulmate. She was practically his sister, for Pete’s sake! He couldn’t fathom finding her attractive, and things like … kissing? Holding hands? Oh, God, if he had to kiss Martha, he’d probably throw up. He’d probably throw up and die. He almost gagged at the thought, nose scrunched up, lip curled, when suddenly Martha appeared.  


“Whoa, what’s wrong with you? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”  


Today, Martha was dressed to the nines. Alfred attempted to calm his facial expression as he took in her outfit: overalls cut into shorts over a cropped, tight t-shirt. She was once again wearing tasteful makeup, and her hair curled sweetly on top of her head. She looked like a cinnamon roll. Even down to her lips, glazed with something sticky. Alfred thought the shiny lip stuff would probably look attractive on someone else … probably. He considered a kiss with Martha, and the feel of that sticky, pink gloss. He fought the urge to actually throw up.  


“Seriously, Alfred, are you okay?” Martha asked, her expression of mirth turning to one of concern.  


Alfred shook his head. Snap out of it! He scolded himself. “I’m fine. Sorry. I was just thinking about something gross.”  


Martha adjusted one of the straps of her overalls, and her top rucked up, showing a strip of her abdomen. Alfred had never seen Martha wear anything that scandalous before. It wasn’t even that crazy of an outfit, but they _were_ in Farmington, and this _was_ Martha. He was supposed to find that attractive, right? On girls? Girls’ stomachs were attractive, right?  


“Hello? Alfred!” Martha waved a hand in front of his face. Apparently she had said something, and he’d completely missed it. Oh God, it had probably looked like he was ogling at her stomach! This was bad.  


“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Alfred asked, trying to play it cool.  


“I asked you what gross thing you were thinking about.”  


In that moment, Alfred drew a complete blank. He wasn’t about to tell her the truth - that would lead to a myriad number of problems, namely those that would arise from telling his best friend that he found her repulsive. He couldn’t come up with anything to say. He blinked owlishly, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I was … uh…” he began intelligently.  


A massive sneeze tore its way through Alfred, saving him from finishing his sentence. He looked up, head spinning, to see Arthur Kirkland pass by. Alfred only caught a glimpse of the boy - nose held high in the air, striding down the hallway like he had better places to be. Alfred glowered. Why couldn’t that guy be bothered to walk at a normal human pace? Was it that hard?  


Then, Alfred was struck by genius. “I was just thinking about Arthur. And how it’d be so gross to …” Dang. He really thought he’d come up with something good, there. Once again, though, he’d botched it. He just decided to let his tongue roll, and assess the damages later. “I was thinking about how gross it’d be to kiss Arthur on the lips.”  


Well. He hadn’t planned on saying that. Damn his improvisational skills! They were downright lousy! Alfred’s assertion hung in the air awkwardly, out in the open. It was too late to take it back, so he attempted to recover, uttering a forced laugh. “‘Cause like. Y’know. Being gay is …” he paused. He was digging a hole he’d never escape. “Gross. Or whatever.”  


Martha gave him an indiscernible look, shrinking away from him imperceptibly. “Do you …. really think that?”  


Alfred grimaced. Of course he didn’t think that! His dad was a college professor and his mom practically ran the Farmington Area Democrats committee. He thought Martha knew he was more than open-minded, but he guessed she must have forgotten. And now, with the stupid shit he’d just blurted out, who knew what she thought?  


“Martha, I, uh…”  


“Listen, Alfred,” Martha began. “I have something to tell you.”  


Oh, God. Oh no. Alfred couldn’t take this. If she declared her love for him, he was going to vomit. She couldn’t be his soulmate. He wouldn’t allow it.  


Martha took a steadying breath. “Alfred, I’m-”  


But Alfred took off, yelping, “Gotta puke!” He pounded his way to the bathroom without even pausing to look back at his best friend.  


Once he got to the toilets, he actually did hurl. Strange how the combination of a splitting migraine, the thought of vomiting, and running at top speeds can do that to a sick kid.  


___

Alfred managed to avoid Martha for the rest of the day, and didn't answer her texts or calls that night.  


This continued in the same vein for a couple of days - Alfred attended school, ignored Martha, and checked himself for flowers every two seconds.  


On Friday, though, Alfred had no choice but to face Martha. Usually Fridays meant a 90-minute study hall with her, where they goofed around and half-heartedly attempted to study. He wasn't sure what to say to her when he entered the library. He hoped she wasn't there. What was he going to do for 90 minutes without her, though?  


But then she appeared before him, like some sort of mirage. "Hey," she said gruffly, blocking his path.  


Alfred smiled warily. "Uh. Heyyy, Martha."  


Martha wasn't dressed up today, Alfred noticed with relief. Her hair was back to a floppy mess, her face bare of makeup, showcasing some lovely dark circles, and she wore an oversized hoodie and sweats.  


"I have something to tell you, and you better not run away this time," she warned, pointing an accusatory finger at his face.  


Alfred attempted to stop her, saying, "Martha, please don't tell me, I know you love me, but I don't like you that w-"  


It was at that moment that two things - two unequivocally important but drastically different things - happened simultaneously. Martha covered Alfred's blathering mouth with her hand, effectively cutting off is his babbling, and angrily hissed four words: "I'm gay, you idiot!"  


Then the scene devolved into chaos. Alfred recoiled from her touch, panicked, flying backwards into a table. Martha covered her own mouth in shock at her blunt declaration, blushing hard. Alfred wiped at his face, hoping to erase any trace of Martha's touch, then gave up and ran to a window. He peered carefully at his reflection, groaning, expecting the tell-tale outline of flowers around his mouth.  


But he didn't see anything at all. His reflection stared back at him, a look of worry displayed on his blurry features. His mouth and face looked just the same as normal - well, perhaps a little red from his panicked wiping, but normal nonetheless.  


"Wha-" Alfred breathed, face contorting into an expression of pure confusion. He stepped back from the window, fingers resting lightly on his lips, contemplating. He turned to Martha, who had followed him over to his makeshift mirror.  


"But … if you're not the one, then who..." he began, trailing off. Then he stopped abruptly. "Wait. You're gay?!"  


Martha scoffed. "Yeah, man. I've been meaning to tell you since … well, since forever. I gave you a million clues …. but I suppose you've always been less than keen at picking up on subtleties."  


Alfred stared at her, incredulous. "You … gay? Like, you like girls? What clues?"  


Martha clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. “Yeah.”  


Alfred sat with Martha at their usual table, taking a couple of deep breaths. There was just … so much to consider. He quickly pulled out his phone to check his reflection once more - still no flowers. Huh.  


"Alfred, you remember that time in middle school when you really liked that cheerleader?" Martha began. "But you got over her in about two seconds when Honda came back from space camp, yeah?”  


Alfred shrugged. He did remember quickly forgetting about the cheerleader when Honda showed him his 27.25 inch Quest Aerospace Striker AGM rocket. What could he say? He was a boy of very specific tastes.  


“Well, anyway. You got over her really fast, but I didn’t. That's why I insisted we needed to go to all those basketball games."  


Alfred squinted. He did remember attending a lot of basketball games with Martha during middle school. He'd always thought they went because they both liked basketball. Huh.  


”Okay, but how else was I supposed to know you were gay?”  


"Alfred. I can't dress myself."  


"Uh…"  


"Alfred, I chopped my own hair up to look like a boy."  


"...Oka-"  


"Alfred, what else do you need? I’m into art and anime and everything I send you on tumblr is gay, dude. I’m just … so very gay.”  


"Okay! Okay," Alfred interjected. "I get it. You were trying to tell me, and I didn't get it. I'm sorry. But … what about a couple months ago, when you started dressing up? You were all fancy?"  


Martha blushed, turning a brilliant shade of brick red. "I … uhh …"  


Alfred pressed on. "You only ever dress up when you have a crush on someone.” He was surprised he knew that, but hadn’t known Martha was a lesbian all this time. Maybe, along with his tendency to selectively hear, he had … selective observance. “So, you must like somebody, right? I kind of thought it was …” He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous (and if he was being honest with himself, selfish) he had been acting. “Well, I convinced myself it was … me."  


Martha pursed her lips at him. "Oh, gosh. You thought I was dressing up for you? Did you think I was your -" she gasped, a smile splitting her face, "- your soulmate or something?!"  


Alfred scowled. "I just thought - I dunno …” He felt his own face, instinctively checking for flowers he knew weren't there.  


"You’re pretty sure you have it, don’t you? You're looking for the flowers”.  


"Of course I'm looking for the goddamn flowers, Martha," Alfred snapped. Then he sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get cross.”  


Martha offered him a sympathetic smile. "Hey, it's alright Alfred. You've always got me."  


Alfred nodded, despondent.  


Martha, despite herself, began to snicker. "You really thought I was your soulmate? Of all people? I am just so gay, and, I mean, you're a nice guy and everything, but..."  


Alfred rolled his eyes at her teasing. "Leave me alone! I thought you were all dressed up for me, okay? I was terrified that you were in love with me, and that it would ruin our friendship. That's why I was avoiding you."  


Martha sighed. "Well, that's not what I thought went down. Jeez, man, I thought you realized I was gay and thought I was repulsive! I thought you were avoiding me because you thought I was disgusting!" A bit of emotion leaked into Martha's words as she spoke, and Alfred immediately held out a hand. She took it gratefully, gently squeezing.  


Alfred rubbed his eyes. "Hey. I will never, ever think you are repulsive. Even if you were just, like, really gross. You're my best friend. And, I'm totally cool with anything and everything. Honestly, I can't believe you thought I would hate you! Man, Martha. You know me!"  


"I know! That's why I thought it was so strange when you started acting weird. And then the other day, when you made that strange comment about Arthur, I was so confused…"  


At the mention of Arthur, Alfred immediately blushed. Why was he blushing? There was just so much swirling through his mind - Martha, wasn’t the one, Martha was gay, the curse … everyone knew about the curse except him … Arthur? Gay? Martha? Alfred needed to go home and mull things over.  


If Martha wasn’t the one … then who was?  


And if he couldn’t find the one … was he doomed to die?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh noo.. what will happen to our poor boy??
> 
> Also, Alfred F. Jones wins the Idiot of the Year award!! Don't you love it when you assume everyone is straight all the time? (Including yourself...) Anyway. Thank you for reading. USUK stuff actually starts happening next chapter!! When I said slow burn, I really meant slow ...


	6. Oh, shit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred and Arthur get paired up for a semester project, chaos ensues, and secrets are revealed.

If Alfred was fabulously wealthy, he could make all his problems go away. Really, he could! He could pay for an antidote to this stupid curse … he could move out, and never have to deal with his stupid parents again, who hovered about like worried insects, too foolish to sit down and talk, but too anxious to leave him alone… if he was rich, he could be like Quentin Tarantino! Or … some other dude who wrote scripts and made money. Wait. Did Tarantino even write the scripts for his movies? Does a director even -  


“Mr. Jones! Alfred - Alfred!” Alfred snapped out of his reverie, blinking rapidly. He’d been staring out the window of the English classroom for so long, he couldn’t remember where he was. Or who he was. What time was it?  


He rubbed his eyes and looked around - the entire class was looking at him expectantly. Was this a nightmare?  


“Alfred, kindly refrain from daydreaming in my class.” Nope. Not a nightmare. In his nightmares, Alfred was always naked. Luckily, he was wearing clothes.  


“I just asked you a question.” That was the voice of Mrs. Bonam, he knew. Great! His senses were coming back to him, albeit slowly.  


“Uh…” Alfred began intelligently. “Is the answer … yes?”  


There were a few snickers across the classroom, and a couple of his teammates guffawed. Alfred usually loved being a source of laughter in the classroom, but this time around, he knew he was _really_ screwed. He had no idea what had happened in the past fifty-five minutes of class. He’d been scheming, dreaming of making enough money to cure himself of the curse - no soulmates, no dying, just cold hard cash. He hadn’t a clue as to what Mrs. Bonam had asked, and even if he had, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to answer it.  


Mrs. Bonam huffed. “Okay, yes it is. You will be analyzing the symbolism of flowers in Hamlet with ... “ she paused. “Mr. Kirkland.”  


Alfred’s eyes flew open in surprise. He was going to be doing _what_ with _who?_ He turned to Martha, who he noticed was once again dressed to the nines. Mrs. Bonam continued, assigning topics and partners to the rest of the class.  


“Martha! Martha!” He called frantically. “What just happened?”  


Martha rolled her eyes. “Well, while you were staring out the window for an hour, Mrs. Bonam went over our semester projects.”  


“Ah, shit.”  


“Yeah. And she noticed you weren’t paying attention, so she gave you the most obscure project and the worst partner.”  


“How could she tell I wasn’t paying attention? Normally I’m asleep in this class, man!”  


“I think it was the fact that you were alternating between staring at the back of Arthur’s head and the window.” Alfred blushed, glaring.  


Martha held up her hands in surrender. “I dunno, man,” she continued. “All I know is she knows you’re strangely obsessed with him, and she asked you in the bitchiest way possible if you were _‘okay with the arrangement.’_ Then, when you didn’t answer, she said your name like, I dunno, eight times.”  


“Shit. Wait. Strangely obsessed? I am NOT-”  


“Find your partners, boys and girls,” Mrs. Bonam called, apparently done assigning projects. “Get going!”  


In that moment, Alfred’s mind went completely blank. Martha stood to find her partner, leaving him to sit, flabbergasted. What was he supposed to do? Complete a semester project with his archnemesis, the _British Bitch?_ About _flowers?_ Which was not only ironic because of the curse, but also even more humiliating because he’d understood nothing of Hamlet, and scored a 57% on that test! How dare Mrs. Bonam! How could the world beseech him like this? This was his senior year! And on top of all the other bullshit he was currently juggling -  


Then, Arthur Kirkland sat down in front of him. “Hey.”  


Alfred blinked owlishly at him, taking him in. He had never been able to observe the boy at such close quarters - this close, he could see just how bushy Arthur's eyebrows were, situated on top of his startling green eyes like little caterpillars. His gaze fixated on those eyes, and he suddenly noticed how many eyelashes the boy had - dark, curled at the ends. He realized he was staring a beat too late, and schooled his expression into one of mild contempt. “Hey?”  


Arthur blinked at him, pushing his round frames up his nose. “Why the questioning tone?” he asked, British accent clipped.  


Alfred scowled. "Well, it's just. You said 'Hey,' like a _normal_ American, which you are not." He paused to scratch at his arms. "Normal, that is. Or American."  


Wow. Now he really sounded like an intellectual. He wanted to be witty and cunning, like Fantastic Mr. Fox, or Spider-Man. Now he just sounded like a dweeb.  


Arthur's face twisted in confusion at Alfred's words. Alfred noted that the Brit's lips, now contorted in a puckered frown, were not, in fact, nearly as thin or snake-like as Alfred had originally thought. They were actually sort of … nice. A pleasing shade of pink, complementing his skin tone. Alfred then mentally kicked himself for thinking such _weird_ thoughts.  


"Sorry that I'm not a normal American, arsehole. I was just trying to be friendly," Arthur finally said in reply, thick brow arched.  


"Arsehole?" Alfred scoffed, laughing at the other boy’s pronunciation.  


"Yeah, arsehole."  


"It's _ass_ hole," Alfred corrected.  


"Arsehole."  


"Asshole."  


"Is that not what I said? Arsehole."  


"No, asshole."  


Arthur began to get frustrated, a slight reddish tinge growing on his cheeks. _Cute,_ Alfred thought. _Wait, what?_  


"Arsehole. Arsehole," Arthur was repeating the word now, rolling it around in his mouth like a jawbreaker. He couldn't seem to figure out what he was messing up.  


"Asshole."  


"Arsehole!"  


"Asshole!"  


"Arsehole!"  


"BOYS!" A voice thundered. Mrs. Bonam looked up angrily from behind her computer, where she was squinting at emails. "Is there some sort of Shakespearian disagreement between you two?"  


Alfred blushed, realizing how close the two of them had gotten during their pronunciation argument. He and Arthur were almost nose-to-nose. "No, Mrs. Bonam," he said bashfully, scratching at the back of his neck. Maybe it was the embarrassment, but his rash seemed more itchy than usual today.  


"Well then. Semester project discussion only! That's quite enough foul language for one day!"  


Both Alfred and Arthur turned back to their desks, Alfred blushing furiously, Arthur rolling his eyes.  


"Right," Arthur said, hitching up his left pant leg. Today he sported the red-and-blue plaid dress pants - those were Alfred's favorite. Not that Alfred had favorites! Or … oh God … "So this project," Arthur intoned,interrupting Alfred’s panic. The Brit made "project" sound like "proo-jict." _Stupid accent,_ Alfred thought. "Shakespeare and flowers. What do you know about it?"  


Alfred, despite himself, was transfixed by Arthur's stupid accent. He hadn't, up until this point, heard the boy speak much - Arthur was always quiet, watching like a cat from the back of the room, slinking silently through the library to read poetry. But his voice was so … posh. Alfred knew he was just speaking normal, everyday English, but the Brit made it sound so … so … elegant. _Elegant?! Snap out of it, man!_  


"Uh … I don't know much about flowers," Alfred said honestly. What a joke. He had a family curse about flowers, and he didn’t know a single thing. What a big fat freaking joke.  


"Really," Arthur intoned, unimpressed. He gave him an appraising look. "Interesting."  


Alfred blanched. Did this guy somehow know about the curse? _There's no way,_ he thought firmly. _He's from outta town._  


Alfred ran a hand through his hair, scratching at the rash creeping up his neck. Today really wasn't his day - his symptoms were going crazy. He wondered if his soulmate was near - maybe she was in this class. Then he swept the idea from his mind. Even if he had to die - he'd rather not know who it was. Nothing mattered, anyway.  


"Yeah, all I know is that daisies symbolize innocence," he said, glancing at Arthur's hand by instinct. The petals of the boy's daisy tattoo were there, barely peeking out from beneath his jacket.  


"Really," Arthur repeated, pulling the sleeves of his jacket over his hands surreptitiously. "Nothing else?"  


"Uhh … roses are romantic?"  


Arthur groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Great. I guess I will need to do the actual analysis. You … you can …” he fumbled, searching for something for Alfred to do. He trusted him to do next to nothing, so it was a bit of a difficult choice. “You can … research flowers. Yes. Perfect."  


Alfred's nose scrunched in distaste. "Really, man?" He did _not_ want to research flowers. He was already in flower hell, constantly thinking about them appearing on his skin. Having to think about them even more than he already did? Hell no!  


"I know for a fact you didn't read all of Hamlet, and you scored terribly on the test that covered this subject. I'm not about to get a poor mark because I let you do the analysis."  


He had a point. "Fine," Alfred said, preparing for a sneeze.  


It never came, though - instead, Alfred was met with the wet slap of something slimy on his face. For a split second, he thought it was another bloody nose, but he soon realized it was only on his cheek. As he wiped at the mysterious substance, he looked around the room: Mrs. Bonam's classroom was spattered with red goo, and at the center of it all stood Ivan and his partner Ludwig. Those two were always getting into trouble, so this wasn't surprising - although Alfred briefly wondered why Mrs. Bonam paired them up at all.  


"Sorry!" Ludwig said cheerfully. "We were making fake blood for our film project, and it has apparently blown up!"  


Ivan grinned, displaying a bowl that had allegedly at one point housed the fake blood. "Guess we'll need to make another batch."  


The class burst into laughter and chatter. People wiped the slimy goo off of themselves, some looking murderous, others chuckling gleefully. Mrs. Bonam was already on the move, a look of pure rage etched on her features. "I told you boys to make that in the _HOME EC ROOM-"_  


Alfred turned to Arthur, wanting to ignore that particular blowup. Arthur somehow had survived the explosion unscathed, and was surveying the scene with mirth in his eyes.  


"How did you not get any on you, man?" Alfred asked. Then he realized that it was because almost all of it had landed on him.  


Ivan was attempting to worm his way out of detention: "Don't worry, Mrs. Bonam! It's edible!" Alfred smirked. Ivan had always been a bit of an idiot, but he could wiggle his way out of just about any punishment. Alfred began to wipe at his face, trying to remove the sticky substance. What was in this? Odds were he was allergic to it. _Man, this'll probably interfere with the rash, and then I'll be even more miserable,_ he thought despondently.  


Then Arthur reached out with a pale hand, swiping a thumb across Alfred's cheekbone. "You missed a spot."  


That's when Alfred's world _exploded._  


At Arthur's touch, a wave of heat - pure pleasure - washed over Alfred. His eyes fluttered, and despite himself, he let out a soft sigh. He felt so much: he felt relief, happiness, joy; he felt like his body had simultaneously been set aflame and doused in freezing cold water. He took a deep breath - his symptoms were gone! He felt no itchiness, no discomfort. The drowsy, unhappy weight of his head cold was gone. It was pure relief, like hot chocolate after a cold day, or a sweating glass of lemonade in the summer. He felt comfortable, taken care of - there was even an underlying tone of heat, something heady, thrumming in Alfred's veins, making all his blood travel south. He felt himself begin to breathe harder as the hot, electric feeling intensified -  


Then, just as soon as it was there, it was gone. He blinked rapidly, coming back to his senses. Glancing down, he glimpsed an unfortunate tenting situation in his pants. _What just happened?_ he thought, trying to get his mind - and apparently, his dick - to calm down. Was there something special in that fake blood recipe?  


Alfred looked about the room dazedly. His gaze focused on Arthur for a split second, and he noted the deep blush tingeing Arthur's cheeks, the startled look in his bright green eyes, the way his lips were slightly parted.  


Then the bell rang, and Arthur stood up all too quickly. He left without a word, stumbling slightly on his way out.  


Alfred took another deep breath - wow. He felt _amazing._ The fog of sickness that had clouded his life for the past months had faded completely, almost as if it was never there. He felt so entirely lucky. _What … even … happened,_ Alfred thought, still in a haze of happy relief.  


He walked out of English class in a daze, a dopey smile painted across his face. For the rest of the day, Alfred walked around like that, his skin buzzing, his insides tingling.  


It wasn't until he arrived home that night that he noticed them - sprawled across his cheekbone, plain as day. Three little daisies. Bright white petals, the yellow centers painted perfectly on his skin.  


And that's when he realized.  


"Oh, shit."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit! It's a rat! Jk, it's just Alfred finding out his soulmate is his nemesis. Hilarious! Also, I love that the catalyst for Arthur and Alfred touching was Russia and Germany. Hehe. Anyway, thank you for reading - I love that this fic went kind of dark for a second, with the whole "you will die of a curse" ultimatum, and now it's back to being fun. Lol. Love how I can't keep a fic on track to save my life


	7. Experiment: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred can't deal with the fact that Arthur may be the ONE, the ONLY ... and decides to test if the Brit really is the curse-breaker.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. In fact, this was probably as bad as it would ever get.  


Sure, he wasn’t going to _die_ anymore … but now he kind of _wanted_ to.  


Alfred had managed to avoid his parents after school, claiming illness and charging up to his room. For hours, he'd stared anxiously at the daisies, contemplating life. He'd rubbed at them, tried to wash them off, tried willing them away with his mind; he'd even considered scribbling them out with a permanent marker. The flowers, though, never budged - the three of them just sat there looking pretty, their dainty petals shining bright white against his skin. He’d stayed up late, later than he should've, really, watching the flowers for movement, for any sign of fading. Despite his efforts, nothing changed. Eventually, Alfred had passed out of exhaustion, sprawled out on the bathroom floor.  


Now it was morning, and Alfred was groggy and _pissed._ He managed to get up off the tile floor, groaning as his hips creaked and his head throbbed. Was this what a hangover felt like? He wouldn't know - he was too scared to drink, let alone go to parties. He'd built up a reputation at school as a hard-partying jock, but in reality, he always pretended he was drunk at parties and hadn’t ever touched a drop. Maybe he'd turn to the bottle now, after this whole curse fiasco.  


He stood slowly, arching his back, stretching out the kinks in his neck. He looked in the mirror carefully, but couldn't make out his reflection - of course. He'd fallen asleep with his contacts in, and now his eyes were angry with him. Great.  


Contacts out, face scrubbed, teeth brushed, and a cold shower later, and Alfred found himself back in front of the mirror. He felt less like a dumpster fire and more like a gently steaming pile of garbage now, which was a definite improvement. He rubbed his eyes beneath his red-framed glasses - the same pair his father wore - and studied his reflection.  


Everything was the same, really: blue eyes and long eyelashes from his mom, sunshine blonde hair atop his head, although a bit mussed. He looked at his ears (a bit too big, in his opinion) his nose (a little crooked from when he broke it doing a backflip in middle school), his lips, his skin (was that more acne near his hairline?), and it was all the same. He checked his cheekbone carefully, but all traces of the daisies were gone - except a bit of redness from last night's vigorous scrubbing.  


Maybe the whole thing had been some whacky dream. He giggled to himself, a little maniacal. "Why _him?"_ he asked his reflection, laughing, almost crying. "Of all people? _Him?"_  


It just wasn't _fair._ Life, Alfred decided, had taken one look at him as a baby and decided to shit on him until the day he died. Sure, the childhood sickness was bad. The middle school anemia was worse, and the bouts of life-threatening pneumonia and bronchitis were pretty terrible. But heap an ancient family curse on the pile of bad, and add this on top? It was just too much. It wasn't _fair._  


Alfred _hated_ Arthur. _Hated._ With a burning passion. He'd decided that long ago, and yes, he was intrigued by the boy's interesting appearance, but he still loathed him. That was it - loathing. Alfred said that aloud, relishing the sound: "I _loathe_ him!"  


The announcement didn't make him feel any better, though. Arthur was his nemesis. His mortal enemy. He hated the way the Brit walked, the way he talked, his stupid white-blond hair and his stupid pouty pink lips and his stupid daisy tattoo. He _especially_ loathed the tattoo. The tattoo, he decided, was the cause of all this trouble in the first place.  


Alfred couldn't fathom Arthur being his soulmate - the person he'd spend the rest of his life with. It just couldn't be true. Arthur was everything Alfred despised; he was posh and snotty, judgemental and uppity. He was too skinny, with delicate wrists and long legs. That just wasn't right. Alfred liked girls with a bit of curve to them - he liked Beyonce, or maybe J-Lo … or, well, he just liked _girls!_ He loved girls! He had never even considered romantic or sexual attraction to another guy. He'd only ever had crushes on girls. He liked _women!_ He liked how they seemed so soft, yet so strong - he'd fantasized about doing all sorts of things with girls, like any teenage boy does. He was going to settle down, raise kids one day! And yet, here and now, cold hard reality had slapped him quite literally in the face: Alfred was gay.  


He squinted at himself in the mirror. He didn't … _look_ gay. But then again, how was a person supposed to tell? Outward appearance doesn't have much to do with sexual preference. But he just didn't … _seem_ gay. He dressed like a jock, always wearing his letterman's jacket. He acted like a jock, especially in school: loud and talkative, jeering when he needed to, joking when he felt like it. Hell, this changed everything. How was he supposed to change with the team in the locker rooms? How was he supposed to conduct himself in school? Around his friends? Almost all of his friends were guys, excluding Martha, of course. Although ... Martha was basically one of the guys, too. Was he going to suddenly have the urge to kiss Ivan, or something? Or Ludwig, or Honda, even? Now that he thought of it, Honda did actually have lovely lips. His smile was kind of cute, too …  


Alfred mentally kicked himself. This was terrible. One swipe of Arthur's thumb on his cheek, and Alfred's entire life had crumbled to pieces. He was in crisis. He didn't want his soulmate to be Arthur. He didn't want to have a soulmate at all. He was starting to panic, breathing hard - he wanted his inhaler -  


Then there was a soft knock. "Alfred, sweetie?" came his mother's voice. "You alright?"  


Alfred took a few calming breaths before he croaked out a quick, "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." His current lack of sleep actually made his voice _sound_ sick, which backed up his bullshit story about feeling sick yesterday. He took in more oxygen, marveling at how well he was breathing. Yeah, he felt like shit today from staying up too late and sleeping on the bathroom floor, but he still felt better than he had in _ages._  


"Okay, honey," his mother said gently. "I just wanted to check on you. I know you had a rough night - I made breakfast, if you'd like. You need to leave in about 15 minutes if you want to get to school on time."  


Alfred groaned. He really, really didn't want to go to school. He could pretend to still be sick, but his parents would worry and probably send him to the doctor's office. That wouldn't work. The doctor would test him and see that he'd made the strangest, most miraculous recovery, and then the secret would be out. It looked as if he had no escape. He, unfortunately, had to go to school, and face Arthur... He groaned again. "Okay, I'll be down in a minute," Alfred called, looking at his reflection once more.  


He traced his cheekbone where the daisies had been, closing his eyes ever so briefly. Alfred couldn't lie to himself - he sort of wanted Arthur to touch him again. He longed for that foreign feeling: the rush of heat and cool and pleasure; the feeling of deep relaxation and hot arousal. He wondered what it would feel like if Arthur touched him for longer, maybe trailing his long, delicate fingers down Alfred's cheek, skimming his jawline. Alfred could almost feel the trail of fire those fingertips would leave as they traced over his chin, up to his lips - skating quickly over his lower lip, leaving a burning, tingling sensation in their wake … his whole body would flood with pleasure, waves of white-blue electricity pulsing over him…  


Alfred's eyes flew open. He stumbled away from the mirror in alarm.  


"Shit."  


___  


The day passed in a blur. He didn't tell a single soul, which was actually quite difficult for him - he was naturally loud and boisterous, and loved to share with his friends. And his acquaintances. And his teachers (the good ones), the janitors … and everyone else in the school. He almost let the news slip a couple of times: once with Martha, once with his teammates at lunch, once with Honda in the hallway. Oddly, he seemed to be bumping into Honda a lot lately. Weird.  


Nonetheless, Alfred managed to keep his secret safe, although he did have to continue acting sick to keep up the charade. He still looked peaked, luckily, from his late night in the bathroom. That definitely helped. But he never even once felt the urge to cough, sneeze, or sniffle, so he had to … _pretend_ a bit.  


Martha could see through his bullshit, though, and by the time they headed to English class, she'd had enough.  


"Quit faking!" she hissed, shoving him roughly.  


Alfred pretended to wipe his nose. "Faking?" he asked innocently. "Faking what?"  


Martha glared at him. "You know what. Your coughing is _pathetic."_

Alfred reddened, but attempted to keep up his facade. "Martha, I'm _sick!"_ He coughed for emphasis. "How could you _say_ that?" He gave her his best puppy dog eyes, begging her to play along with his charade.  


"Who is it?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Tell me, or I'll make a scene right now in the hall."  


They had stopped walking now, crowded against the lockers as a sea of other students streamed past.  


"Who is … what?" he queried, feigning innocence in a last-ditch attempt to avoid telling her the truth.  


"You _know_ what, Alfie! You found the cure! You found your soulmate! Tell me, or I'll start yelling!" she threatened, already beginning to raise her voice. "ALFRED JONES LIKE TO SUCK DI-"  


"SHHH!" Alfred hissed, panicked hands shoving her against the lockers. "Shut up! Shut! Up! I'll tell you, okay?"  


Martha smirked. "Ha!" Then her expression morphed into one of unbridled excitement. "So? Who is it? Who is your _soulmate?"_  


"Keep your voice down! Jesus!"  


The hall had mostly cleared now, but Alfred still cast a furtive glance around. They only had about a minute to get to English.  


"Okay. It's … sort of embarrassing …" Alfred's mind flitted to bright green eyes framed with dark lashes, a look of surprise - and something else - reflected in deep irises. He felt a jolt of electricity at the thought, and then a foreign feeling: a sense of protectiveness. This was altogether too _new._ This thing, this surprise soulmate, was like an open, gaping wound, still fresh. He still hated the idea that it was Arthur. He would probably think that until the end of his days, but if one day he warmed up to it, _then_ he'd tell Martha. As for now, he wasn't ready.  


"Martha," Alfred began. "I'll tell you, but for now … I'm just not ready, okay?"  


Martha looked disappointed for a split second, but then nodded in agreement. "I get that."  


"Yeah. It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just that … I'm not quite warmed up to the whole idea of having a soulmate. And I'm not so sure that the curse even, like, works."  


Martha paused. "What do you mean, _works?"_ she questioned, suspicious. "You still think you're gonna die?"  


"No … well, actually, I feel better than I have in years, actually. But, I mean, well, what if it paired me with the wrong person? Hypothetically speaking?"  


Martha pursed her lips in thought. "Well, if I were you … I guess I'd just test it out. Experiment. Get this … _person,_ whoever it is, to touch you a lot, to make sure it's right."  


Alfred immediately blushed at the thought, his mind alight with memories of Arthur's delicate thumb on his cheek. "Oh - uh, yeah. I'll, um, try that."  


Martha smiled and punched him on the shoulder. "Let's get to class! I can't believe it! You aren't gonna die, this is so exciting …"  


___  


Minutes later Mrs. Bonam stood before her classroom announcing in an annoyed tone that they'd be working on their semester projects for the entirety of class. "Partner up!" she called, then wearily returned to her desk.  


Alfred's stomach dropped. He knew he'd have to talk to Arthur again, and he knew it would be in this class, but still … it all felt so soon! How was he supposed to look Arthur in the eye, now that he _knew?_ And the things he'd been fantasizing about this morning …  


He shook his head. No. Today was for experimentation only. There was no way Arthur was his soulmate - mostly because Alfred was _not gay,_ obviously - and Alfred would prove it. All he had to do was get the guy to touch him again, check to make sure no flowers appeared, and the case was closed!  


This, however, was easier said than done.  


Arthur plopped down next to Alfred shortly after Mrs. Bonam concluded her speech, looking as … _interesting_ as ever. Alfred looked at him with new eyes, his brain unhelpfully screaming, _“HE’S RIGHT THERE! Right in front of you!"_ Arthur was clad in all black today: black turtleneck, black dress pants, black loafers. His outfit was so dark against his pale skin, making his shock of white hair even more prominent. The wispy ends of his hair were still tinged with red, now almost pink - Alfred thought for a second that the boy looked like a Q-tip dipped in red paint. Weird. Q-tip or not, Alfred wanted to touch his hair; he wondered if it was soft, sort of like a cloud, or if it was more coarse, like a poodle's coat. Alfred subconsciously leaned in toward Arthur, his skin tingling, his body screaming, _"Closer! CLOSER!"_  


He blinked, leaning back.  


"Uh, sorry. Did you say something?" he asked nervously, looking determinedly at a fixed point over Arthur's bony shoulder.  


Arthur curled his lip. "No. You were just giving me a really strange look, and then you seemed as if you were about to pass out."  


Alfred swallowed. "Right. Uh, I'm kind of … sick. So that happens. Sometimes."  


Arthur blinked at him, looking slightly disgusted. "Ookay …"  


"So, the project," Alfred said, changing the subject. "How's it goin'?"  


"Fine, thank you. Have you looked into Shakespeare's use of pansies, as I asked?"  


Alfred grimaced. "Um, his … what?"  


Arthur groaned, exasperated. "I emailed you yesterday, asking you to please start looking into -"  


"Email?" Alfred interjected, face screwing up in confusion.  


"Yes. Email. Do you not know what that is? What, is America really in the Stone Ages?" Arthur rubbed at his eyes beneath his round glasses, mumbling about useless Americans.  


"I know what email is!" Alfred blurted. Smooth. Real smooth.  


"But you just … never check your school email," Arthur said tiredly.  


"Right." Alfred tore his gaze away from Arthur's long fingers, their pads rubbing at the Brit’s bright green eyes. "I didn't even know we _had_ school emails!"  


"Bloody hell," Arthur whispered. Then he straightened. "Well, we best get started now then. Go ahead. What do you know about pansies?"  


Alfred frowned meekly. "Uh. Pansies, right. Are they the ones that look like …?" he trailed off, hoping Arthur would finish for him.  


"Cripes, you really are unhelpful. Fine. I'll start, then you can Google the rest. Pansies are small, often purple and yellow. They symbolize love or adoration, especially in thought. The name comes from the French, _pensee,_ which means _to think;_ so to give another person a pansy is to say you're thinking of them, especially in a romantic way."  


Alfred blinked, his mind skittering to a halt. That's … sort of what he'd been doing for the last couple of days. Why weren't there any pansies on his skin, huh? Dumb curse.  


"Write that down, it should be enough. Now, go research some more flowers."  


Alfred continued blinking, turning dutifully back to his own computer. "Righto," he said, feigning indifference.  


He scrolled aimlessly for a bit, trying his best to keep his eyes to himself. Occasionally, he'd slip, and he'd find himself staring at Arthur's tattoo, his curly hair, his defined jaw. When he noticed he was staring, he'd snap back to his computer, mentally scolding himself.  


"There's uh, violets," Alfred finally said, clicking on a SparkNotes article.  


"Mmhmm," Arthur said, scratching away at his notebook. "Go on."  


"It says here that blue violets symbolize faithfulness and devotion." He swallowed nervously, continuing to read from the site. "'The act of giving a violet can be equated with eternal devotion … uh …” he skimmed the article, reading snippets aloud, “And it says violets in literature are shared between…" he trailed off, uncomfortable. "Um. Soulmates."  


Arthur didn't seem to notice Alfred's hesitation, and replied with a gruff, "Good. Write that down."  


Alfred glanced back at his computer screen, growing increasingly more uneasy the more he thought about flowers. His eyes flicked to the clock, and with a start, he realized there were only 5 minutes left before class was over. _Shit,_ he thought, panicking. He hadn't gotten the stupid _British Bitch_ to touch him! He needed to prove that the curse was broken. But how? Could he brush hands with Arthur, grabbing for a pencil?  


That was a great plan! And ... it was his only plan. He quickly reached out for Arthur's pencil, but the boy picked it up and tossed it in his bag before Alfred even got close. _Dang._ On to Plan B.  


Alfred considered stretching out and "accidentally" bumping Arthur, but then he stopped. Did it only work with skin-to-skin contact? Why, of all days, did Arthur have to wear a turtleneck _today?_  


On to Plan C, then. Alfred only had a couple of minutes left until the school day was over. What to do, what to do? He scanned the room, searching for inspiration. He watched as Honda tripped over his own feet, and that's when the idea struck him. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.  


As Arthur bid him a nod farewell (acknowledging his existence, but establishing that he had no respect for him whatsoever), Alfred stuck a toe in his path. Arthur didn't see the obstruction, stumbled, and began his journey to the ground.  


It felt like moving in slow motion, although it happened in just seconds: first, Alfred lunged out, grabbing for Arthur's hands as he fell. When he missed spectacularly, he made a split-second decision and dove underneath Arthur. The two boys crashed to the ground in a heap of arms and legs.  


"What the bloody _fuck?"_ Arthur asked, hair and glasses askew, glowering.  


Alfred, though, was in no position to answer him. Arthur had landed directly on top of him, and the sensation he felt at the contact had him woozy. Arthur had one hand on his stomach, where Alfred's shirt had somehow rode up, and the other was braced against the side of his neck. The Brit had one leg wedged in between Alfred's own, and his face was inches away from Alfred's heart.  


Every area Arthur touched was a hotspot - a live wire of pleasure. Waves of heat crashed over Alfred's entire body, and he bit his lip to keep a delighted sigh from escaping him. His stomach was fire, his neck a smouldering ember; when Arthur huffed an angry breath, Alfred felt an icy-hot tingling sensation ripple from his heart outward. He barely managed to keep himself from gasping as Arthur shifted against him, and almost whimpered at the loss of contact as Arthur stood up hurriedly and dusted himself off.  


"Bloody fucking Americans," he grumbled, stooping to grab his bag. Alfred had no reply, still reeling from the sensation. He was breathing hard, he knew, although he tried desperately to calm down.  


Then the bell rang, and the classroom emptied. Alfred allowed himself to close his eyes briefly, reveling in the pleasure that zig-zagged its way across his skin. He took a couple gulps of air, realizing how absolutely _fucked_ he was. He opened his eyes to find a stern Mrs. Bonam towering over him. He yelped, sitting up.  


"Having fun down there, Mr. Jones?"  


His face reddened, flushing an even deeper crimson. "No ma'am," he said carefully, hoping she couldn't see the situation developing down south.  


"Then get off the floor," she said angrily, although it was tinged with fondness. No one in Farmington could be completely angry with Alfred F. Jones. She gave him a small smile. "You know, Alfred, I knew your great uncle."  


Alfred blanched, whipping his head around. "You _what?"_  


"Yes," she said fondly, a note of sadness pervading her voice. "Francis and Louis were a bit older than me, but I remember them well."  


"Louis?" Alfred asked, a sense of curiosity replacing his overwhelming feelings of pleasure. "Who?"  


Mrs. Bonam's eyes reflected sadness and a bit of pity. "Ah, well. You'll learn eventually."  


Alfred frowned. What was she talking about?  


"Now, get out. I want to get home and watch HGTV."  


Alfred didn't need to be told twice. He gathered his things and scrambled out, immediately heading to the bathrooms. He needed to check for flowers.  


___  


Alfred stripped of his shirt, and there they were: some just faint outlines, developing like a Polaroid picture, others fully detailed and brightly colored. First his neck - a giant cluster of violets, stretching from the juncture where his neck met his shoulder all the way to the base of his ear, bright purple against his flushed skin. Then his stomach - a patch of multicolored pansies, most with their delicate petals yellow in the center but dark purple on the edges, others with those colors reversed; some a buttercream white, others drawn in soft orange. As he breathed in and out, a couple of them fluttered as if a breeze had passed by. Alfred blushed in embarrassment. He lifted a tentative hand to the violets on his neck, tracing the swirling stems with his fingers. The flowers shivered, and he gasped - half from surprise, half out of delight. He checked the skin over his heart, but just as he had surmised, the area was blank. Just his normal, freckled skin, no flowers to be seen. It had to be skin-to-skin contact to work, then. He checked down the front of his pants, too, just to make sure - Arthur's leg had been wedged down there pretty firmly - but alas, there wasn't anything there, either. His eyes flitted back to the mirror, and he stared at his shirtless reflection, sighing.  


The experiment results were in, and Alfred didn't like the conclusion.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea that the flowers sort of "develop" ... like, they start as a white ink tattoo, almost like a scratch, and then the colors develop until they're super bright. Idk if it's actually cool, but I think it's sick. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	8. Spill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred finally has to come clean to his parents.

Alfred crept through the living room, intent on avoiding his parents. He tiptoed down the hall, scarcely making a sound - he'd almost made it to the stairs when he heard a stern, "Alfred…"  


His shoulders slumped in defeat. It was all over now; he had to tell them the curse was real. He had to tell them he'd stolen the old journal, decoded the poem, solved the mystery. He had to tell them he was cursed … cursed to live his life with Arthur Kirkland, of all people… oh _god!_ He had to tell them he was apparently _gay!_ His eyes widened, and he considered running away, up to his room. He could hide in there, right?  


He sighed. The patch of violets on his neck was obvious against his skin. He had no way to hide it. He considered lying, telling them the flowers were a new tattoo - but that would never work. The closest tattoo parlor was an hour away, and he was pretty sure no tattoo artist, no matter how talented, could ever draw violets that _moved._  


_Well - here goes nothing._  


"Hey," he said tiredly, turning back to trudge into his father's study.  


Both James and Amelia were there; James sitting pensively behind his desk, Amelia perched on the desk itself. They looked to be in serious conversation.  


"Hey, kid," Alfred's father said carefully. He paused, grappling with himself, but eventually began to speak. "Listen, your mother and I have been talking, and-"  


His eyes widened, and he abruptly stood from his seat. "Are those -" He didn't even bother to finish his sentence, hastening over to where Alfred stood. Amelia gasped, and followed right behind him.  


"You found the one," Amelia whispered, her voice tinged with awe. "And so soon."  


Alfred nodded sadly, not wanting to say much.  


"It _is_ real," his father said, staring at his son. "How did you …"  


"I stole the journal," Alfred interrupted, not caring if he sounded gruff. It served them right, keeping the curse from him for eighteen years. "And I figured out about the curse by myself."  


James ran a hand through his hair with an apologetic grimace. "Alfred, that's what I was going to say … listen, I'm really sorry we didn't tell you earlier - I'm sorry I didn't _let_ anyone tell you. I was overreaching, I was being foolish." He looked to his wife. "I thought, pff, there's no way this curse is real, there's no way my son could be affected by it, right? So why tell him? Why worry him?” He laughed, regret written across his features. “But now I realize how wrong I was.”  


Alfred wanted to yell and scream at his parents. He wanted to make them feel _terrible_ for keeping secrets from him. But the moment he opened his mouth, his anger left him. He considered how he’d react, being in their position - of course he’d want to protect his only son. Of course he wouldn’t believe it. “It’s … okay, guys,” he said, deflating. “I figured it out, and, y’know, I’m not going to die anymore, which is pretty cool.” His parents chuckled. “Definitely a relief,” Amelia said happily. She gave her son a sly wink over James’ shoulder, mouthing what looked like _“good job.”_  


The tension in the room melted away, replaced by excitement. His parents cooed over him, inspecting the violets from all angles. Alfred, however, knew the worst news was yet to come. How was he supposed to tell them his soulmate was a _guy?_  


"Well, son? How does it feel? Are you alright?" James began to pepper him with questions, oblivious to Alfred's obvious despondency.  


Alfred gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m fine,” he said, closing his eyes briefly. How did people do this? _Hey, I’m gay. By the way, it’s a boy._ It was just a few words! Why couldn’t he just spit them out?  


“Are there any more flowers?” his mother asked, scanning his body.  


Alfred nodded, grimacing as he slowly lifted his shirt, displaying the pansies on his stomach. His parents _oohed_ and _ahhed_ as if they were at a fireworks show, admiring the multicolored blooms.  


Without warning, James reached out and touched the pansies. Alfred immediately recoiled, heat flashing over his body. He shuddered, and the pansies wiggled and squirmed.  


“Oh, wow,” James said. He and Amelia shared a look. “They’re pretty sensitive, huh.”  


Alfred rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I guess.”  


“How long have you had them?” Amelia quiered. "Are they always that sensitive?"  


Alfred hated the intrusive questions, but he figured that these were his parents, and he may as well tell them the truth. "Well, I first got them two days ago. Three little daisies, on my cheek. They went away, and now I have these today."  


James nodded eagerly. "And your symptoms? Did they disappear when she touched you?"  


Alfred frowned at the use of _she._ He decided to rip off the band-aid. "Yeah." He paused, sucking in a deep breath. "I felt so much better when _he_ first touched me on the cheek."  


"Oh, that's great, this is wonderfu - wait."  


An awkward pause stretched between the three of them.  


"Did you say … he?" James asked carefully.  


Alfred cast his gaze to the ground, his eyes pricking. Why did he already feel like crying? His parents hadn't even said anything yet.  


"I, uh," Alfred started, sniffling. "Yeah. I did."  


Amelia immediately enveloped him in a hug. "Oh, honey!" She held him, letting him sniffle a bit against her shoulder, then stepped back. "Is this … okay with you?" She placed a gentle hand beneath his chin, lifting his face so they were eye to eye. "How do you feel about it?"  


"I -" Alfred wasn't sure how to respond. He didn't know how he felt about it. He felt confused, helpless; he thought he liked _girls._ He knew he hated Arthur, but now, he wasn't so sure. "I guess I didn't know I was gay," he conceded truthfully. His eyes welled with tears, and one rolled down his cheek, plopping onto the floor.  


"Well, we didn't really know either!" James said, chuckling, attempting to lighten the mood. "I'm glad we're all on the same page!"  


Amelia shot her husband a look. He immediately quieted. "Well, Alfred - you liked girls, right? That one nice girl, in the beginning of high school?"  


Alfred sighed, casting his memory back. He did vaguely recall liking some girl - what was her name - Julia? He remembered a brief, awkward makeout under the bleachers, her bleach-blonde hair and curvy hips. Perhaps he had a penchant for blondes.  


"You could be bisexual, then. There's no reason to let this curse define you. Just because you're destined to be with a boy doesn't discount the feelings you've had for girls."  


Alfred nodded, considering that sentiment. It sounded pretty reasonable to him. He tried out the word: "Bisexual." He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but maybe it would grow on him. "Okay," he said.  


Amelia smiled. "It doesn't matter though - not at all. I couldn't care less what you are - bisexual, gay, whatever. I love you, and I always will. I'm just happy you're feeling better, and that we've left all that sickness behind us."  


Alfred sniffed. That was the nicest thing he'd ever heard. He didn't want to cry, but more tears rolled down his face. He managed a small, "Thanks, ma."  


She smiled at him fondly. "I'll go get you something. Do you want a peanut butter and jelly?"  


Alfred almost sobbed. Yes, _yes_ he wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His mom always made the best ones, with loads of peanut butter and an ungodly amount of sweet jelly smeared everywhere. He definitely needed a bit of his crisis food. Ever since he was a little kid, a PB&J had served as an all-weather pick-me-up for when he was feeling down. "Yes, please," he said, nodding gratefully.  


"Grape or strawberry?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.  


"Strawberry."  


"Okay. I'll be back."  


Alfred remembered that his father was still in the room, and attempted to compose himself. He couldn't cry in front of his dad. He needed to be tough, like a man! Then he saw the tear tracks on his father's face, and changed his mind.  


"Hey, it's okay, Dad," he said, wiping his own tears. "It's fine."  


James sighed and cleared his throat. "I know, I know son.” His voice cracked awkwardly, which he attempted to cover but to no avail. “It's more than fine." He paused, searching for the right words. "Like your mother said, I'm just glad you feel better. No more sickness, right? No more allergies!"  


Alfred brightened a bit. He'd forgotten that part of the curse - he'd been so caught up in feeling sorry for himself, he'd forgotten that that once your soulmate touched you, all your ailments were permanently cured.  


"Do you really think it'll be permanent?" Alfred asked, trying not to get too hopeful.  


James sighed. "We can't be sure, but that's what I remember Francis telling me. I guess we'll see."  


Alfred nodded, then stopped. “Francis?”  


His father reddened slightly. “Yeah … there’s something I need to tell you about your great uncle. But maybe … a different time?”  


Alfred agreed. First, he thought he was going to die from an ancient curse, and then he was _cured_ from said curse by his arch-nemesis … who was a boy, which meant Alfred was apparently bisexual, an idea he couldn’t have fathomed even twenty-four hours ago … yeah. He needed a little more time before more earth-shattering news.  


He was starting to calm, now, and felt less like sobbing. He had to ask to make sure, though: "You're …. okay with me being with a guy, yeah?"  


His father thought for a moment - one agonizingly long moment, the tension in the air pulled taut like the string of a kite on a blustery day - and finally cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah kid. Of course I am. It's a little … sad, I guess - no grandkids …" he trailed off.  


Alfred felt another round of tears well up. This was terrible - he was already such a disappointment to his father, and now he, their only child, would never give them grandkids - he was just weak and pathetic, like he'd always been -  


"What am I thinking, kid?" James said suddenly. "Why would that matter?" Alfred looked up, confused. "And besides, you could have a surrogate! Or adopt!” James was smiling, and reached out to envelope his son in a hug. “God, I'm sorry. That was so selfish of me."  


Alfred managed to crack a small smile. It looked as if things were alright, after all.  


His father sopped up the last of his own tears, grinning. "Gosh, Alfie. I'm so happy for you." He scrubbed a hand through his beard, a look of incredulous awe on his face. "If you don't mind telling me, who is it?"  


Alfred grimaced. He really didn't want to tell his father that the man he was destined to be with - forever and ever - was a wispy blonde Q-tip from Britain. "Uh. You probably don't … know him," he said.  


James chuckled. "Right," he said. As if he didn't know everyone in Farmington. "You can tell me when you're ready."  


Then his mother returned with sandwiches, and for a while, all was well.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make this overly sappy? Is it a re-imagining of my own coming out? Did I make Amelia overly supportive for no reason? Do I love strawberry pb&js????  
> These are valid questions. Do I have answers??????  
> Anyway, thanks for reading. Sappy stuff is out of the way, so prepare yourself for exclusively gay shit from now on.


	9. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred gets invited to Arthur's house to study, but gets just a little more than he bargained for.

"So, your house or mine?" Arthur asked, examining his nails.  


"I, uh," Alfred said intelligently, distracted by the Brit's long fingers. That's all he'd been able to think about the past hour of class - pale, slim fingers. Round nails. A daisy tattoo, half hidden beneath green jacket sleeves. Really, he’d been distracted all day - ever since he came out to his parents, he’d been a bit of a mess. It’s like all he could do was think about Arthur. "I … don't know?"  


Arthur rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever, we'll go to mine. My host family won't care." He tapped a pencil against his thumb, contemplating his notes.  


Alfred squinted at Arthur's hands, ignoring the excitement bubbling up in his stomach. He was going to Arthur’s house? _Alone?_ Who knew what would happen! Maybe they’d abandon working on their project, and then he’d ask Arthur to touch him, just a little. Just on the hand, or something. And then, who knows …  


He shook his head, trying to calm his overactive imagination. He looked again at Arthur’s hands. They were so ... delicate. Piano player hands, that's what his mother would say. Alfred quite liked people who could play the piano - he admired how their fingers could flit and float across the keyboard. He'd taken lessons as a kid, but as most hyperactive children do, he quit within a couple of years. He wondered if Arthur could play piano; he wondered how his fingers would look as they flew over ivory keys. He had such nice fingernails. Heck, maybe he got regular manicures. He seemed like the sort of guy to get manicures, didn't he? Alfred huffed, his chin resting on his hand.   


"Hello? Jones?"  


Alfred jolted slightly. "What?"  


"I asked you what time you wanted to come over. I think the project is going to take at least a couple hours, if not most of the evening. Especially taking into account what a right unhelpful tit you are."  


Alfred pouted. He wasn't _that_ unhelpful. Sure, he zoned out every two minutes, staring at some part of Arthur - his hands, his pointy elbow, his earlobe. Whatever looked the most interesting, really. Sure, he was doing it right now: staring raptly at Arthur's collarbone, the boy’s pale skin peeking out from beneath his overlarge t-shirt. His mind wandered, and for a brief moment he considered what it would feel like to rest his head right there, right over Arthur's heart. Then he shook his head, banishing the thought. "I can come over whenever," he said, shrugging. He yawned, then settled again, a light smile on his face.  


Arthur gave him a strange look. "What the devil's gotten into you?"  


Alfred raised an eyebrow in reply. It had been a couple days since he'd come out to his parents, and really, come out to himself, and he felt surprisingly ... _content._ A weight had been lifted off his shoulders; the tightness in his chest had disappeared. He had never realized it, but for the past couple of years, he’d felt _uneasy._ He'd never allowed himself to think about, let alone talk about, his sexuality, and keeping everything bottled up had weighed him down. Now that he'd been forced to think things through, and after a couple of conversations with his parents and Martha, he felt more comfortable with himself than he had in years. Bisexual. He liked the term, now. He'd looked up the flag, too. It was by far the coolest of all the pride flags.   


Arthur eyed him warily. "You're starting to freak me out, mate."  


Alfred shrugged again. "I'm happy," he said, and he meant it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt genuinely happy - today, though, he felt lovely. Maybe it was the curse, which he’d found made his skin buzz ever so slightly the closer he got to Arthur. Curse or not, though, he didn’t care. All that mattered was he was here, he was queer, and he had accepted himself.  


Arthur scoffed. "Right, but where's your usual gruff jock facade? Your whiny _'I can't do my schoolwork, it's too hard'_ attitude? Hmm?" He imitated Alfred’s voice, grinning wickedly. "Where's the _'You don’t know anything, youre just some stupid Brit'_ every two seconds, eh? How about the _'I'm sick, I can't do this'_ melodrama?"  


Alfred pursed his lips. He supposed he did do all of that. He supposed, when it came down to it, he was an annoying prick. Especially toward Arthur. He couldn't help it, though! He just hated the guy. Although, today, he couldn't seem to remember why. What made Arthur so terrible, again? He racked his brains, but couldn't seem to remember. All he saw was a boy, shyer than most, who worked hard to earn good grades and got annoyed easily. He saw a lean boy clad in too-small pants and a too-big shirt and jacket, his skin like fine china, his hair a delicate pouf of bleach-blonde.  


Everything he'd initially thought of the boy was wrong. Or … maybe that was just the curse talking?  


"I dunno, man. I'm just happy," Alfred said. He wished he had more flowers. Then he'd be even happier. His flowers from the other day had taken forever to fade, staying colorful and sensitive for what seemed like an agonizing 24 hours. He'd experimented, just a bit, tracing his fingers over the colorful petals, watching, enraptured, as they shivered and danced, goosebumps erupting over his skin.   


Now, he sort of missed them. He wondered what he should do to get Arthur to touch him again. He considered a few options, ruling out last time's tripping and catching fiasco. No, today he'd go for something simpler, and he'd be smooth about it. For a second, his mind stopped, reminding him, _"If you touch him now, everyone will see the flowers! Everyone will know!"_  


But he dismissed the thought, instead casually brushing the back of his hand against Arthur's, leaning over to grab some of their notes. Heat, slightly muted, bloomed behind his eyes, and a soft sense of pleasure flowed from his head to his toes. It felt different than the daisies and the violets and the pansies - not that it didn't feel as good as the first time - but it was just different, quieter, a more serene feeling, like he was in a hot bath. He closed his eyes, soaking in the feeling - it was almost akin to the sensation one gets in the few blessed moments right before sleep: calm, all-encompassing, like a soul leaving a body. He liked to think that it felt this way because he was ready for it, but of course he wasn't ready for it. He never would be.  


He opened his eyes.   


"So, you want to just come over right after school?" Arthur asked, oblivious to everything that just happened.  


_Oh, hell yes!_ Alfred wanted to say. But he didn’t - he instead sighed, and maybe it came out a bit breathier than intended, but that wasn’t Alfred’s fault, was it? He considered his options. If he went over now, the flowers would develop by then. The Brit would definitely see them, especially in such an obvious place as the back of his hand. Alfred, though, with a surprisingly resolute feeling of surety, decided that it would be _fine._ He was wearing his long-sleeve letterman's jacket! He could just pull the sleeves down to cover the flowers. It would all be just _fine._  


___  


It was not, in fact, entirely fine.  


The two worked in companionable silence for a couple hours at Arthur's house - Arthur lying on his bed in the corner, typing away, Alfred on the floor next to him, adding gifs and photos to their presentation for no real reason. (He had convinced Arthur that these were of paramount importance, and Arthur, exasperated, had reluctantly allowed him to add whatever memes he saw fit.)  


As they worked, Alfred found himself admiring Arthur - the boy was relaxed here in his own space, where at school he seemed more uptight, apprehensive. His green eyes normally held a look of discomfort or utter boredom, but now, he seemed a lot more … chill. _Yeah. Chill,_ Alfred thought. Chill Arthur was a cool Arthur to be around.  


Well, he _was_ cool to be around, except for when he suddenly asked, "What's on your hand?"  


Alfred realized he'd let his jacket sleeve slip down - he'd been diligently holding it over his hand for the past couple of hours. _Shit, shit!_ His mind went into immediate panic mode, alarms blaring, sirens flashing.   


“Um. It’s nothing,” he said quickly, tugging at his sleeves.   


“C’mon, mate! Let me see!” Arthur said, leaning over his mattress, all pretense of working on their project gone.   


“It’s nothing, man!” Alfred tried, but Arthur was already reaching out, tugging Alfred’s sleeves up. The boy’s fingertips left trails of fire over Alfred’s forearms, and he had to resist letting his eyes flutter closed. Then his eyes widened as he realized - _shit._ Now he was going to have even _more_ flowers. What would he tell Arthur when they appeared?  


Arthur pulled his sleeve, then stopped, staring at Alfred’s flowers.  


"I always thought you were strangely obsessed with _my_ tattoo," he said carefully, inspecting the small flowers. Alfred's eyes widened. "But it was just because you were getting your own!"  


Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes! Yes, thank you, exactly. I was always intrigued by your … uh … " he trailed off. "Flowers. And I wanted to get a tattoo. So. I got this one," he concluded. He looked down at his hand, finally examining the flowers. Today they were sort of odd - bright orange and blue spikes for petals, blooming from green boat-shaped leaves. The cluster of flowers started at his pinky knuckle, sprawling across the back of his hand, ending just at his wrist. He noticed with alarm that more flowers- different from the strange orange and blue ones - were beginning to appear further up his arm. For now they were just faint red outlines, like tiny scratches, but he knew they'd appear in full color in a couple of minutes. He looked back at his hand - the flowers looked like some sort of deranged cactus. What kind - ?  


"Bird of paradise is a good choice, too. Representing joy, and all that," Arthur said, nodding.  


"Oh, yeah," Alfred said casually, thanking his lucky stars Arthur knew more about flowers than he did. "Yeah, I was feeling really … joyful.” Alfred stopped to consider. He was, in fact, feeling rather joyful. It was quite strange how the flower meanings seemed to line up with how he was feeling.   


“It’s wicked," Arthur said, turning back to his computer. He typed a couple more words, than sat back and sighed. "Right. I feel like it's done."  


Alfred immediately agreed. Anything to change the subject. "Uh, yeah. Me too. It feels … done."  


"Cripes, that was stressful," Arthur said, rubbing at his eyes. He took his glasses off, then pursed his lips. "Projects always wear me down."  


Alfred nodded. "Oh yeah, uh, me too. 'Cause i]I care about school. A lot." He cleared his throat.  


"Whatever," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. Then he gave Alfred a sly smile. "Tell you what. Do you want to smoke up?"  


Alfred froze. "Do I want to … what?"  


"Smoke. Weed."  


"Oh. Right." Obviously that was what Arthur was talking about. Alfred definitely knew … all about drugs. And alcohol. He was, according to everyone at school, a bona fide partier. "I, uh, yes," he managed. "Sure."  


He'd never done anything of the sort before, but he figured if a good student like Arthur did it once in a while, it couldn't hurt.  


Arthur grinned. "Okay. Cool."  


___  


Alfred coughed a lot.  


"Who doesn't?" Arthur said, taking the blunt back from Alfred's tanned fingers. "Blokes are always all 'If you cough you're a pussy,' but who cares? I don't."  


Alfred said nothing, his eyes watering, his throat burning. Was this getting high? This _sucked._ He felt like he was going to _die._ His throat was closing up; his eyes were bugging out. He choked a bit, coughing more.  


"Besides," Arthur continued, "using 'pussy' as an insult really isn't effective, because as we all know, the female body is the most powerful entity on Earth."  


Alfred tried to nod in agreement, but he felt like he couldn't swallow. Were there tears coming out of his eyes?  


“Not that men’s bodies aren’t also beautiful, of course,” Arthur continued, talking almost to himself. He paused, blushing slightly, embarrassed at what he’d just said. Then he finally noticed Alfred's struggling. "Bollocks, you need some restoration tonic!"  


Alarmed, Alfred nodded slowly. He wasn't sure what "restoration tonic" was, but hey, anything to calm the hurt in his throat.  


Arthur headed off to the kitchen, leaving Alfred alone in his room. He quickly rolled up his sleeve to inspect the new patch of flowers on his forearm, but his vision swam. They seemed to be tiny little star-shaped pink flowers, but he couldn't be sure. The patch was mostly leaves and vines, dark green and shining, from what he could see.  


"Ta-da!" Arthur said, waltzing into his room with a tall glass. Alfred hurriedly covered his arm, smiling casually. "I made restoration tonic."  


Alfred accepted the glass, taking a tentative sip. It was just … water. With ice. At least, he thought so. He couldn't seem to taste anything.   


"Is this just … water?" he asked, taking another gulp.  


Arthur giggled, his eyes hooded. "Shh," he said, putting a slim finger to his lips. "It's a secret."   


It was definitely water.  


Alfred shrugged, gulping down the rest of the glass. His throat still felt like fire, and he wasn't sure what to do.  


"You'll feel good in a second," Arthur told him. He lowered himself to the ground next to Alfred, so they were both leaning against his bedframe. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.  


A couple of minutes passed, and Alfred distracted himself from the urge to cough up his lungs by crunching on the ice in his cup. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the burning sensation left him. He felt … good.   


"Wow," he said, but his words felt strange. His tongue was all weird. Not allergic reaction weird, just … big and clumsy. _Wow._ Had he already said "Wow?" He couldn’t remember. He repeated it a couple of times, just to be sure. "I feel like … my whole body is buzzing." For some reason, this wasn't a foreign feeling - it was sort of like when he was sitting in an uncomfortable position for too long and got pins and needles in his limbs. Except now, the pins and needles were everywhere, taking over his whole body. They were … _soft_ pins and needles, though.  


He tried to explain this to Arthur, who laughed. "Soft needles."  


Alfred snorted. "Soft needles!"  


They descended into a fit of giggles. Then, Alfred couldn't remember what happened. They talked; or maybe they didn't. Alfred said stupid, nonsensical things, and Arthur heartily laughed at each utterance. They may have stood up; they may have started dancing like men possessed, limbs flailing, jumping about despite the lack of music.  


Somehow, though, after what could've been minutes but was really hours, they ended up laying side by side in Arthur's bed. The duvet beneath them had a nice texture, and Alfred ran his hands all over it, admiring the smooth feel of it. Wow. Had he felt anything so nice before? Had he said _wow_ yet? He said it a couple of times to be sure. He rolled around, deciding to ditch his jacket so he could feel the soft blanket beneath him on his skin. "Oh, yeah," Alfred said as he flopped his bare arms over the bed. Then he began to laugh at himself in earnest. What was he _doing?_  


Alfred's body was thrumming with energy - he already felt giddy and buzzed from the weed, but now he was in Arthur's bed, surrounded by his smell, and his body was going into overdrive. He could feel Arthur's breath on his bare shoulder like a gale force wind. When had they gotten so close? The distance between them - barely inches - seemed charged with a thousand volts of electricity.  


"Whoaaa," Arthur suddenly said, sitting up. "You have more tattoos?"  


He'd noticed the small pink blooms on Alfred's arm. _Shit._ Alfred blushed, but his sluggish brain couldn't seem to come up with an excuse as to the flowers' existence. "Yeaaah," he said finally. "More tattoos."  


"Blimey, that's cool," Arthur said. "Are they bouvardias?"  


_What the fuck are those?_ Alfred initially thought, but luckily didn't say aloud. "Yeeaaah," he agreed. "Boo-gardia. Bugatti."  


Arthur giggled at that. "Y'know these are symbolic of enthusiasm?" He hovered his hand over the tiny flowers, and they visibly shifted. He didn't seem to notice. "You give 'em to somebody if you have a great big crush on 'em."  


Even in this calm state, Alfred blushed, embarrassed. He definitely didn't have a _crush_ on anybody. How silly. That'd be stupid.   


Arthur dropped his hand, covering Alfred's forearms with his palm. The touch came out of nowhere, and Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin as heat flared across his body. He let out a startled, "Ah - hmmph," attempting to stifle what was almost a moan.   


For a while they lay like that - Arthur curled up, facing Alfred, his hand resting on Alfred's forearm. Alfred was sprawled out on his back, breathing hard, burying his face in the crook of his elbow in a sad attempt to hide his blush. The sustained touch on his arm was sending all sorts of feelings directly into him, alternating from icy cold energy to waves of warmth. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to block the feeling, trying not to writhe in pleasure.   


"Why d'you call me the British Bitch?" Arthur said, breaking the silence.  


Alfred's chest rose and fell heavily, and his mind struggled to catch up. He uncovered his eyes, blinking unsteadily. How did Arthur know about Alfred's nickname for him? He'd never said it to him - the only person he'd ever said it to was Martha. Huh.  


He resolved to tell the truth, mostly because he couldn't come up with anything else.   


"I thought you were mean."  


Arthur exhaled. The puff of air drifted over Alfred's shoulder like a phantom touch. He shivered.  


"Everyone thinks I'm mean."  


Alfred shook his head, trying to tell him no, not everyone thought that; _he_ didn't think that. He shifted, and Arthur's hand slipped off his arm. The loss of contact left him yearning for more, his skin itching for Arthur's hands to return. His head cleared a bit, though, and he turned to look at Arthur.  


"I don't think you're mean," he said truthfully. "Now that I know you better - you're just … passionate, is all. And shy, so you come off snooty." Was that almost a complete sentence? Wow.  


Arthur smiled. "That's … probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."  


Alfred's mind flitted back to his mother's words, after he'd come out. He'd thought they were the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. The more he thought about coming out, the more he wanted to tell Arthur. Without stopping to think, he blurted, "Hey, Arthur. I'm bisexual."  


"You're _what?"_ Arthur asked, startled. His pale skin flushed, but Alfred didn't notice.  


"I'm bi." He wasn't sure why he was telling the Brit this, but he felt it was the right time. "I just found out a couple days ago."  


Arthur scoffed. "How do you _just find out?"_  


"Well, I didn't really allow myself to think about it, y'know?"  


"Huh," Arthur said, drifting off into silence.   


Now that he had that out of the way, he relaxed. Without fully deciding to, he started to move: he rolled over bodily, a bit ungraceful. Then he sighed happily as his skin erupted in pleasure - heat zinging across its surface, blooms of icy heat flaring at each contact point. He buried his face in Arthur's neck, right at the collarbone, just as he'd imagined in class. Arthur's hands hovered for a second, unsure, but soon found their way to Alfred's sides, resting there with only the faintest whisper of a touch. Alfred's skin tingled at the feel of them.  


Minutes passed, or maybe hours, Alfred's mind numb from the combination of weed and Arthur's touch. He may have let some … noises come out as they lay there. Who knows. He sighed, shifting, delighting in the heat that reignited from the change in position.   


Arthur suddenly leaned back. "Hey. You have … more tattoos."  


Alfred tried to appear unsurprised, although he did a poor job. "Oh. Those."  


He racked his brains for some excuse, but his mind was in a fog. He scrubbed at his eyes, brainstorming madly. Finally, he just let his mouth run: "Yeah, I have a lot of flower tattoos - um, they're uh … heat activated." Oh yeah. That was good - heat-activated tattoos! The perfect cover story. "Yeah. So they only appear when you get my skin hot."  


He cringed. Perhaps that wasn't his greatest cover story ever. In fact, it sounded a bit stupid. Arthur, though, was stoned enough to believe him.   


"That's blooody awesome," he drawled, touching the flowers that had etched themselves across Alfred's forehead. His fingers trailed down - there must have been more blooms flowing down his temple, and even more on his neck and shoulders. Arthur's fingers delicately followed the twists and turns of each vine, and Alfred had to do everything in his power to not moan aloud. He closed his eyes tightly, imagining things that were decidedly not sexy - really old women at the pool when he was lifeguarding. Freezing cold swim trunks in the summer. Lukewarm pizza. Bridesmaid dresses. _Anything._  


It wasn't working, though. His efforts were futile. He was undeniably turned on in another boy's bed, covered in god-knows how many over-sensitive flower patches, and still riding on a wave of weed-induced fuzziness. He sighed, and it came out much breathier than he intended. He hoped Arthur didn't notice. He was suddenly overcome with exhaustion; his eyes began to close as if on their own accord. He struggled to stay awake, but he felt himself slipping, his vision blurring, his mind quiet. The last thing he saw before sleep took him was Arthur's face - emerald eyes glowing, lips quirked in a tiny half-smile.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just gets gayer and gayer, folks! The sexual tension only goes up from here. 
> 
> You may be wondering if I once again used my own experiences in this fic... Possibly. Honestly, this may as well be self-insert at this point. My first time, when they gave me "restoration tonic," I literally thought it was some sort of magical elixir. It took me probably an hour to figure out it was just ice water lol
> 
> Anyway, drugs are bad (or whatever...)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred wakes up after a fun night "studying" ... and tries to worm his way out of going to school and facing the consequences.

Alfred woke up slowly - yawning widely, he scrubbed at his eyes. He stretched lazily, reveling in the soft warmth emanating from his pillows. The pillows were quite warm, actually … warm, and firm, and _soft_ …. he snuggled closer, smiling.  


Then his eyes flew open in alarm.  


He wasn't sleeping on a _pillow,_ he was sleeping on a _person._ Without moving a muscle, he cracked one eye open - oh god. He was sleeping on Arthur Kirkland. He was sleeping in Arthur Kirkland's _bedroom._ He was full-on, head-to-toe cuddling Arthur Kirkland _in his bed._ _Shit, shit, shit,_ Alfred thought, panicking. How did this happen? He remembered studying, he remembered the proffered blunt … he remembered talking and dancing and laughing … but he sure as _hell_ has no idea how he ended up in Arthur's bed, spooning. Oh god, why were they _spooning?_  


Alfred tried to move just a fraction, tried to make at least a little room between their bodies - but to no avail. His front was quite literally plastered to Arthur's side, and Alfred had for some reason thrown his leg over Arthur's pelvis. Somehow, their arms were tangled together, one of Arthur's hands nestled in Alfred's hair (which felt absolutely fantastic) and the other wrapped around Alfred's waist. Alfred shifted just slightly - was Arthur's hand underneath his shirt? Oh man, it definitely was. Oh, man. How was he going to extricate himself from this situation? How…  


Fuck it. He peeled Arthur's hand off his stomach, and rolled away - only to be stopped by a tight grip and a gruff noise. Alfred slowly turned back, confused. Arthur … wanted him to stay? He lifted his head, looking at the Brit’s face, but Arthur was still sleeping peacefully. Why wouldn’t Arthur let him go? He must’ve been dreaming, dreaming of someone else. That had to be it. He wasn’t hanging on to Alfred because he wanted to, right?  


Alfred tried once more to remove himself from Arthur’s embrace, only for the blond to clutch him tighter, grumbling something into Alfred’s shoulder. It sounded suspiciously like his own name - but that couldn’t be possible, right? Maybe he’d hallucinated it? Arthur couldn’t have said _his_ name … while holding him in his arms …  


He was beginning to panic now. How to get out without waking the other boy? If Arthur awoke, and saw the unfortunate placement of Alfred’s leg, he’d certainly be angry. And … Alfred held back a groan. His skin was probably _covered_ in flowers. If Arthur saw that, the jig would _definitely_ be up. How would he explain how he got head-to-toe heat-activated tattoos? God, why did he pick such a terrible cover story last night? _Heat-activated tattoos?_ What was he _thinking?_ Lost in thought, Alfred almost didn’t notice Arthur nestle his face into the crook of his neck, sighing. He almost yelped as Arthur’s sleepy lips brushed his neck. Lips were so entirely different than any other touch Alfred had felt - it was the same dizzying, heat-filled sensation, but _amplified._ Another brush of Arthur’s lips sent a shudder down his spine. Alfred tried to control his breathing, heat pooling low in his belly. What was Arthur _doing?_ Did he normally do this to his pillows? If so … Alfred wouldn’t mind being a pillow more often.  


_Snap out of it!_ he scolded himself, as Arthur sighed into his neck. Alfred’s eyes nearly fluttered closed from the sensation, and he felt his entire body run hot. He needed to get out of this situation, and fast, before he made any foolish decisions. Between Arthur’s hands in his hair and on his sides, Arthur’s legs nearly wrapped around him, and his warm breath and hot lips _doing things_ to Alfred’s neck, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it. He looked down in alarm - was that a _boner?_ Jesus Christ, was he fourteen years old or something?  


To make matters worse, Arthur rolled over on top of him, pulling their bodies flush together. Oh god, if Arthur woke up, he’d feel Alfred’s down south situation … he blushed hard, considering the implications. What if Arthur woke up, and he … liked it? What if he woke up, and instead of just breathing on his neck, he kissed Alfred, right there, on the juncture where his neck met his shoulder? What if he trailed those kisses down, down, setting Alfred’s body on fire, leaving a trail of flowers …? Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stifle the sounds that wanted to escape him, trying to settle his imagination, trying not to breathe, trying not to move. He was really hard now, in the bordering on painful way, and he fought to keep his erratic breathing under control. He was trapped in Arthur’s embrace, he felt hot and cold all over, he felt like he was going to _explode…_  


Then Arthur’s alarm went off.  


Arthur groaned right into Alfred’s neck, and the sound nearly had Alfred tumbling over the edge. The Brit rolled away from Alfred to turn off the offending alarm, grumbling. Finally. Alfred felt like he hadn’t breathed properly in ages. He took in a couple fortifying gulps of air, then made a split-second decision: if he ran now, Arthur probably wouldn’t see his blush. If he ran right this second, Arthur wouldn’t see the flowers that were probably all over his body. If he ran like hell, Arthur wouldn’t have a chance to question the presence of a certain situation in Alfred’s pants. So, he did.  


“Bye, gonna be late,” he managed to squeak out, bolting out of bed. He grabbed his jacket and his bag, prayed he hadn’t forgotten anything, and sprinted away.  


Arthur barely had a chance to rub the sleep from his eyes before Alfred thundered down the stairs and left the house. “Wha-” he said tiredly, hair mussed. “Alfred?” He checked the time with bleary eyes. “It’s … only seven o’clock?”  


___  


Alfred didn’t stop running until he was back in his own house, in his own room, and even then, his heart didn’t stop racing for a second. He immediately stripped off his clothes, inspecting himself in the mirror - and _jesus fucking hell._  


To start, his arms from fingertip to shoulder were covered in a garden of flowers - almost like a sleeve of tattoos, except for the fact that they moved. Alfred watched in awe as the blooms shifted and fluttered as if shaken by a gentle breeze, their delicate petals and leaves dancing. His stomach and chest were similarly decorated, though the patches were fewer and far between. Most were concentrated on his lower stomach, right above his waistband, where Arthur’s hand had been resting during the night. His legs weren’t in terrible shape - luckily his shorts had protected him from skin-to-skin contact, although from the knee down, he looked like a Mother’s Day card. He recognized many of the flowers that littered his skin - daisies, bright white and sunshine yellow; pansies with their bright purples, yellows, and pinks; dark violets with big green leaves; the strange boat-shaped oranges and purples of birds of paradise, and those little pink blooms from yesterday - what had Arthur called them? Bugattis or something? Alfred sighed. This was not good.  


He looked up, studying his face and neck, and _fuck,_ it got worse, it was so much worse. His face looked like Martha Stewart’s garden, vines and leaves sprouting from his hairline, flowers following the curves of his face, decorating the sharp jut of his jaw. Jesus, what was this? He looked like Post Malone!  


His neck is where the trouble really started, though. Where Arthur’s lips had touched him sat the biggest, brightest maroon and white flower he’d ever seen. Surrounding it were even more blooms in striking orange, coral, and yellow. This was a _disaster._ What did he do to deserve this? How was he going to go out in public?  


He huffed angrily, sinking to the floor. He needed to talk to someone .... ah. Martha! He quickly opened up their chat.  


ChickenAlfredo: ok so uhhh i haev something to tell u  
KMartha: OMG FINALLY!! SPILL  
KMartha: WHO IS IT  
KMartha: ALFREd TELL me WhO is UR SOulmATE  
KMartha: WHO HAS U ALL GOO GOO EYED  
KMartha: WHo’s UR huNNY bunNY  
ChickenAlfredo: k nvm  
KMartha: WTF Alfred no coem back no I didn’t mean 2 scare u  
KMartha: Alfreeeeeed pls I’m ur best friend and you’ve been holding out on me for soooooo long  
ChickenAlfredo: if ur gonna be mean i’m not gonna tell u  
KMartha: I promise I am not going to be mean  
KMartha: I’ll love you no matter what  
KMartha: It doesn’t even matter who it is.  
KMartha: Unless it’s that one chick in history 3, she is literally the worst  
ChickenAlfredo: martha shut tf up and let me type  
KMartha: Oops sorry  
KMartha: Go ahead  
KMartha: The floor is yours  
ChickenAlfredo: k well i got super high last night and i defs know who it is  
KMartha: OMG yasss  
KMartha: WAIT  
KMartha: WAIT U GOT SUPER HIGH??  
KMartha: Like DRUGS? LIKE MARIJUANA???  
ChickenAlfredo: uh yeah  
KMartha: AND U DIDN’T INVITE ME???? WHAT THE HECK  
ChickenAlfredo: srry it was for research  
KMartha: What?  
ChickenAlfredo: long story  
ChickenAlfredo: it’s arthur  
KMartha: It’s arthur what  
KMartha: Arthur is a long story?  
KMartha: Wait, Arthur the British Bitch, who you can’t keep your eyes off of????  
KMartha: You did drugs with a foreign exchange student?  
KMartha: WDYM “it’s arthur”  
KMartha: Hellooooooo???  
ChickenAlfredo: literally my whole body is covered in flowers man, it’s bad  
KMartha: Arthur covered u in flowers????  
ChickenAlfredo: ur so fucking dumb sometimes  
KMartha: What why  
KMartha: You still haven’t answered  
KMartha: What is Arthur????????  
_ChickenAlfredo has left the chat._  
KMartha: Alfred come back  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Why is your whole body covered in  
KMartha: Oh  
KMartha: Oh wait  
KMartha: Hold up  
KMartha: OMG ALFRED IT’S ARTHUR  
KMartha: OMG OMG OMG OMG COME BACK ALFRED I GET IT  
KMartha: I GOT IT  
KMartha: WHY DID I KNOW IT WAS HIM OMG I'M LIKE A PSYCHIC  
KMartha: BRO THIS IS WHY YOU KEPT TALKING TO ME ABOUT UR SEXUALITY OMG  
KMartha: Now we can move past all this stupid pining stuff, thank goodness. I was so tired of u sending bedroom eyes across the library for 90 mins  
_ChickenAlfredo is back online._  
ChickenAlfredo: i hate u  
KMartha: Maybe so, but u LOOOOVE ARTHUR!!!  
ChickenAlfredo: NO I DONT  
KMartha: Yeah right idiot face, tell that to DESTING  
KMartha: *destiny  
ChickenAlfredo: k whatever  
KMartha: Can’t wait until you have to go to school with your whole stupid idiot face covered in flowers  
KMartha: <3 <3 <3  
ChickenAlfredo: dickhead  
ChickenAlfredo: actually that’s what i wanted to talk about  
KMartha: What, school?  
ChickenAlfredo: do u think u can cover for me?  
ChickenAlfredo: say im sick????????  
KMartha: Not sure, man … I can, but ur parents will definitely question  
ChickenAlfredo: FUCK  
ChickenAlfredo: parents  
ChickenAlfred: im done for  
ChickenAlfredo: i dont wanna tell em its arthur  
ChickenAlfredo: i would literally rather die  
KMartha: Hey, don’t say that. Just come to school, then they won’t see  
KMartha: Then you can crash at my place!!!! B-)  
ChickenAlfredo: yeah thanks but thats not happening  
KMartha: Bruh just come to schoo l it can’t be that bad  
ChickenAlfredo: ...  
ChickenAlfredo: ...  
ChickenAlfredo: can we ft  
_KMartha wants to video call. Accept?_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, that took me longer than it should have! If I wasn't already going to the 11th circle of hell, I am now! Nothing gets me going like a good "we fell asleep together and woke up cuddling" trope. You can pry it from my cold, dead hands!
> 
> I'm sorry. Thanks for reading, if you're still here after that train wreck of a chapter.
> 
> Stay tuned for Alfred having to go to school looking like Post Malone: Home and Garden Edition.


	11. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred has to go to school, and shit hits the fan.

"Oh my _god."_  


That's all Martha said when Alfred accepted the video call. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened in shock. She was speechless for a few minutes, peering closely at Alfred's face through her phone.  


"That's not even the worst of it," he said angrily, taking off his shirt to show her the flowers covering his neck, arms, and torso. Martha once again had nothing to say, just studying Alfred through the call, eyes wide in wonder. She seemed at a loss for a bit, until she noticed - "Wait, are they _moving?"_  


Alfred sighed unhappily. "Yeah. They do that." He touched a bloom on his cheekbone, and Martha nearly gasped as it wiggled giddily on his face.  


"That's so _cool!"_  


"Marthaaa.."  


"Sorry, sorry," she apologized. "I mean, you don't think it's at least a _little_ cool?"  


"Sure, it's a little cool, but I really can't think about whether it's cool or not right now!" He glanced at the clock. Already 7:30? "I have to go to school in half an hour! I need a solution, fast!"  


Martha tapped her lips in thought. "Y'know … you could come over right now. I have an idea. You might not like it, but …. just bring a sweatshirt and long pants." She paused. "And could you maybe steal your mom's concealer?"  


___

Half an hour later, Alfred and Martha walked into Farmington High. If anyone would've looked closely, they would've noticed how Martha's smile was maybe a bit forced, and how Alfred's blue eyes held a look of pure fear. No one did look closely, though, so no one noticed. A few students may have noticed Alfred's sweats and too-big sweatshirt, but didn't say anything (even though it was nearing May, and the weather was quite warm). Sometimes, you see a hungover homie in the halls, and you respect his boundaries.  


Despite the fact that his fellow students barely cast him a glance, Alfred's body was in overdrive. His veins thrummed with adrenaline, a live wire of nervousness. Sweat pricked his brow, partly because of the heavy clothes, partly because his brain wouldn’t stop screaming, _What if someone sees you?_  


Martha cast him a worried look. "Hey," she said, seeing his petrified expression. "It'll be totally fine. No one's going to notice, alright?"  


Alfred shrugged. He went to mop his sweaty brow with his sweatshirt sleeve, but Martha caught his arm. "Don't - you'll smear the makeup!"  


That was probably the biggest reason for Alfred's distress. Martha's excellent "idea" had been to cover up the flowers with makeup - an endeavor that had taken the better part of half an hour for a myriad number of reasons. First off, it was quite difficult, as Martha had only started doing her own makeup this year, and had never done anyone else's. It was even more difficult because Alfred couldn't sit still, babbling on and on, complaining how he was "so fucked," and that "this would never work, not in a million years." It was even further complicated by the fact that the flowers on his face and neck were extremely sensitive, so every time Martha moved her foundation brush over a bloom, or painted concealer over a vine, Alfred shuddered bodily, eyes squeezed tightly closed. By 8:00, Alfred was a loose-limbed, sweating mess, the foundation caked on from forehead to collarbone hiding his sweaty flush.  


Martha had finally called it quits after the puff of powder on Alfred's skin had him mumbling _"Fuck"_ under his breath, hands clenching into fists. "Sorry," she'd said sheepishly. Then she'd attempted to lighten the mood, joking: "Hey, it's a good thing I'm gay, because that was kinda hot."  


Alfred blushed further, but still managed to open his eyes a crack to send her a death glare. "Shut. Up," he said through gritted teeth, chest rising and falling rapidly. "That is _not_ helpful." So, lightening the mood didn't quite work out. But - the flowers were invisible to the casual observer, and once Alfred slipped on his oversized sweatshirt, everything seemed - at least, if you didn't look too closely - like normal.  


Now, walking to class, Alfred wanted nothing more than to strip off his sweaty, heavy clothes, and wipe off all the stupid makeup. Who cares if his body was covered head-to-toe in flowers - flowers that swayed and danced on his skin when he breathed in and out?  


...Yeah. Everyone would care.  


_Especially_ because apparently, everyone in this stupid town knew about the curse, and gossip spread like wildfire. Alfred paused to consider. Martha hadn't known the details of the curse - she'd never seen the poem. The same was probably true for the rest of Farmington, right? So, they knew about the sickness, and the dying, but did they know about the flowers, and the whole … soulmate thing? Maybe he _could_ sell the heat-activated tattoo ruse.  


He was seriously considering stripping off his sweatshirt when Honda appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Martha and Alfred exchanged a quick look, fear written across their features. Honda, bless him, didn't notice. He only had eyes for Alfred's face, which he studied with interest.  


His dark eyes held a look Alfred had never seen before, and the half-smile painted across the short boy's pale face was almost … predatory. "Hey, Alfred," Honda said, eyes gleaming. "You look really nice today."  


Alfred's eyes widened. Could Honda tell he was wearing makeup? God, he told Martha to go easy on the highlight! He glared at her over Honda's head.  


"Thanks," Alfred said, feigning casual. "So do you," he continued, searching for some way to redirect attention away from himself.  


Honda smiled brightly at the compliment, eyes still roving Alfred's face. "Why do you have your hood up, though?" he asked, almost pouting. "You should show off, not hide."  


Alfred looked down at the ground, hoping the makeup hid his blush. Was Honda … _flirting_ with him? Did he know Alfred was bi? What did the dark-haired boy _know?_ "Um, thanks," Alfred stuttered out. "Anyway, I need to go to cla-"  


He was cut off by Honda grabbing his hand, squeezing lightly. Alfred had to suppress a gasp as Honda's touch ignited the bouvardias on his hand, shooting sparks down his arm. Honda noted this reaction, then skipped away, chuckling. Alfred turned to Martha. "Does he know?" he hissed, panicked.  


Martha shook her head. "There's no way, right? I hadn't seen the poem, there's no way he could've."  


Alfred sighed through his nose. "I'm fucked. I'm _fucked."_  


Martha grabbed his shoulder - gently, knowing the violets beneath were probably writhing about underneath the fabric of his sweatshirt - and led him toward class. "You're fine, calm down. But hey," she said, grinning. "I thought you said _Arthur_ was your soulmate."  


Alfred sent her a confused look. "I did."  


"Looks like Honda wants to give your _British Bitch_ a run for his money," Martha said, teasing.  


Alfred spluttered, blushing from head to toe. "Let's just. Ahem. Go to class," he said hurriedly, nearly tripping over himself as he hastily ran away.  


___

Alfred's day went as well as it could, considering how it had started. He made it through each of his classes, hood up, head down. No one asked questions or bothered him, which was the greatest blessing of all. He had Martha touch up his makeup over lunch after he smeared it, and overall, he was feeling surprisingly hopeful. Maybe he'd make it through the day without anyone figuring it out! He smirked to himself - it felt almost dangerous, to hide a secret like this out in plain sight. Anyone could see the flowers beneath the makeup if they studied him closely, but … no one bothered to. He felt like a spy. He felt like he'd committed a crime and gotten away with it, like he was parading around with stolen jewelry like a villain in a blockbuster movie. His steps were light, his eyes full of hidden mirth. He walked into Bonam's English room, ready to plow through the final class of the day and escape to Martha's, elated.  


What he saw when he entered, though, wiped the smile clean off of his face.  


It was Arthur - not surprising, seeing as he had always been in Alfred's English class - but it's what Arthur was _wearing._  


He had his usual scuffed-up Doc Marten's, his usual too-tight pants, his prissy Fjallraven bag - but instead of his usual army jacket, he was wearing a letterman's jacket.  


He was wearing _Alfred's_ letterman's jacket.  


He was wearing Alfred's letterman's jacket, and he looked _damn good_ in it.  


Alfred gaped as one of the cheerleaders approached Arthur, complimenting the jacket, smiling flirtily. Arthur grinned back, rosy lips and blinding white teeth, and the cheerleader was dazzled. It was obvious. _Anyone_ could see how good Arthur looked. And everyone was _whipped._  


Including, it seemed, Alfred. He licked his lips, which for some reason had gone completely dry. He stared at Arthur, admiring how the Farmington blue looked against his creamy complexion, noting how the jacket was maybe just a little big, draped across his sloping shoulders. He couldn't decide which issue was more pressing: how Arthur had somehow stolen his jacket, or how he was going to hide how turned on he was.  


This soulmate thing was starting to sound better and better.  


Alfred swallowed thickly, memories of Arthur's hands, Arthur's _lips_ , touching him, pulling flowers to the surface of his skin as easily as the smiles he gave the cheerleader. Why was he smiling at her like that? What did she do to deserve that soft curve of lips, the light twinkle in those emerald eyes? Arthur didn't even _know_ that chick!  


Arthur suddenly turned that soft smile away from the cheerleader, looking past her as if she wasn't even there. He locked eyes with Alfred, and the smile turned into more of a smirk, something heady and secretive in his gaze. With unabashed confidence, Arthur looked him up and down, pausing on the spot on Alfred's neck. Alfred's eyes widened. Could he see the flowers? Did he _know?_  


Arthur sent him one last glance, eyes sparkling with laughter. He bit his lip - _why did he bite his lip oh god was that supposed to look sexy? It kinda looked sexy_ \- and turned to sit at the back of the classroom.  


Alfred was left standing at the door of the room, rooted to the spot. He couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. How was he supposed to recover from this? A handsome boy wearing his jacket, smiling at him with bedroom eyes, biting his lip like he knew what Alfred was thinking? God, he was fucked. He was so fucked.  


He finally sat, moving as if in a trance. It's like one look from Arthur had made him _stupid._ His brain function was completely gone. Without thinking, he put his chin on his hand, rubbing absentmindedly. How did Arthur get his jacket? And why did he look so downright _sexy_ in it?  


Mrs. Bonam told the class to partner up, but Alfred barely heard. "We're presenting today, so please sit with your partners and be ready."  


Alfred continued to ponder. Had he left it at Arthur's house this morning? That couldn't be - he'd grabbed his jacket as he ran out. Unless he'd grabbed … the wrong one?  


Suddenly Arthur plopped down in the desk next to him. He was a couple feet away, but he was already too close for comfort. Alfred could feel the flowers on his body hum at his proximity, flooding him with warmth. Fuck. All his body wanted was to get closer, but his mind screamed to run.  


He elected to instead sit frozen in his seat, barely acknowledging Arthur's presence. He took a couple of deep breaths, willing his stupid body and those stupid flowers to calm the fuck down.  


"So, I was thinking I'd read the odd slides, you'd read the even," Arthur began, discussing their project as if nothing was wrong. "Sound okay?"  


Alfred nodded minutely, his face a careful façade of calm as his insides screamed in chaos. He watched Arthur hitch up his left pant leg - a habit he did a lot, now that Alfred noticed - and gulped. Those fingers. That leg. Those _pants._ "That sounds fine," he squeaked eventually, trying to control his train of thought, which was quickly careening into extremely inappropriate territory.  


Arthur was still talking, but Alfred couldn't tell you what he was saying even if someone held him up at gunpoint. He was panicked, and sweaty, and Arthur was … asking him a question?  


"Alfred? Hello?"  


Alfred shook himself. "Hmm? What?"  


Arthur's bushy brows furrowed in worry. "Are you alright?"  


Alfred stretched his lips into what he hoped was a smile, but what was actually more of a grimace. "Yep. I am just swell. Just peachy! Thank you!" He wanted to explode. This _sucked._  


"Oh. Well … okay. You, erm, have something on your face, though."  


Alfred balked. Fuck. Arthur saw the makeup! "Uhh… " He needed to think of an excuse - any excuse, anything at all! "Um, Martha, she uh… wanted to practice applying makeup! So she used my face. Um. For practice."  


Arthur blushed prettily. "Erm. Not that." He paused. "It looks really nice."  


It was a god damned miracle Alfred hadn't passed out by now.  


"It's not the makeup, it's just, um, you have something on your chin, here." Arthur leaned forward slightly and wiped at Alfred's chin.  


"Fuck," Alfred muttered, realizing two fundamental truths at the exact same time: one, he must've rubbed the makeup off his chin with his hand earlier, exposing the red flowers on his chin; and two, he just quite literally moaned _fuck_ at Arthur.  


Maybe passing out _was_ the best option. Arthur's fingers left a pulsing heat on the already oversensitive flowers on Alfred's chin, and despite his best attempts to stifle it, he sighed aloud. Arthur thankfully didn't notice Alfred's lack of vocal control, instead focusing on what he thought was a red mark on Alfred's chin. When the mark didn't disappear, Arthur's face screwed up in confusion, and he once again swiped at it. Alfred's breath caught in his throat at the touch, gentle and caring, setting his insides aflame.  


"A- Arthur," he attempted, breath hitching. "Don't-"  


But Arthur continued to wipe at what he thought was a pesky mark on Alfred's skin, frustration mounting as the spot wouldn't budge. "Why won't this come off?" he grunted, swiping again at Alfred's chin.  


At this point, Alfred was gripping the ends of his sweatshirt sleeves so hard his knuckles were white. His eyes were closed tightly, and a flush - partially obscured by makeup - had crept its way up from his neck to his face. He could barely contain the urge to moan and writhe in pleasure, and the effort of restraining himself was written clearly on his face.  


"Arthur," he finally said, just as the boy in question dropped his hand. Alfred panted for just a second, then opened his eyes. "Stop _doing_ that, man."  


Arthur finally noticed Alfred's heavy breathing and bright blush. "Is everything alright?" he asked carefully. His eyes shone with concern, but also a hint of something else, something darker. There was something in the way he looked at Alfred's sweaty, disheveled state - like he wanted to _eat_ him, or something.  


Alfred was about to reply to Arthur's query when the Brit leaned in again, closer than before. "Wait …" he said, tone accusatory. "Is that a _flower?"_  


Alfred shook his head quickly. Even in his addled state, he knew this was bad. This was very, very bad.  


He stood abruptly. Fuck it, he needed to escape. It was such a terrible idea to go to school today! What had he been _thinking?_  


"Gonna be sick," Alfred said quickly. Then he scooped up his things and bolted.  


___

Alfred ran all the way home - fuck school, fuck practice, fuck it all. His parents wouldn't be home from work until the evening, so he had a couple of hours to figure out what the hell to do about certain … things. When he finally reached his house, panting, he scrambled up to his room, haphazardly shucking off his shoes and heavy clothes, throwing his bookbag in a corner.  


He inspected the damage; just as he had suspected, a petite reddish orange flower shone brightly on his chin, makeup rubbed off. The rest of his foundation wasn't faring well, either. It wrinkled oddly and clotted strangely, mixing with the sweat pouring from his face. Gross. Why did people wear this stuff regularly? What did you do when you had to run for your life - just accept that your face would ooze orangeish tan goo? _Gross!_  


Alfred managed to find his mother's makeup remover, and after some hectic scrubbing and a too-hot shower, the carnage was erased. He studied himself closely in the bathroom mirror. Everything looked the same as it had this morning. There were flowers everywhere, like a tattoo artist had tried to recreate Martha Stewart's garden on his body. He peered closely at the blooms on his face. They seemed unfamiliar to him; different from any of the flowers he'd seen on his skin before. There were the tiniest white flowers, growing in patches of green leaves; there were large, many-petaled blooms, showcasing a variety of pinks; and there were roses, red-orange and coral. Why _these_ flowers? Why were they different from the flowers he’d seen before?  


He contemplated texting Martha, but he didn’t want to bother her while she was still in class. He already felt like such a burden - between making her cover him in makeup, asking her to stay over at her house, talking her ear off about Arthur, and forcing her to bear the burden of keeping the curse a secret, he felt like he’d already done enough damage. Who else might know something about flowers? He almost considered sliding in Arthur’s DMs … but quickly decided against it. Arthur was already suspicious. He knew something was up, and he certainly wasn’t buying the heat-activated tattoo thing.  


Who to turn to in times of need? His parents? No, they’d just ask too many questions, and try to get him to tell them who his soulmate was.  


Well - it looked as if Google was the only option.  


He pulled out his laptop, starting with a simple search for “flowers.” He scrolled through the articles until he found something of merit, and scanned the encyclopedia-like list for flowers he recognized.  


First he spotted large pink blooms, like the ones on his cheeks and neck. “Mauve carnations,” he read aloud, looking from his computer screen to his face in the mirror and back. “What the hell is mauve?” Another search informed him that it was a pale, bluish purple. Why didn’t they just say pink? Stupid florists. He continued to read about the carnations: how to grow them, their history, and other useless information, until his eyes landed on a slightly alarming fact:  


_“Mauve carnations represent dreams and fantasies, specifically those of a lusty and sexual nature.”_  


They represented _what_ now? He quickly found the next type of flower - the tiny white ones, petals smaller than a thimble. He barely glanced at what they were called (coriander) or what they were used for (they grew from cilantro plants, and were apparently edible), and went straight to their symbolism:  


_“Coriander flowers symbolize guilty pleasures and even feelings of lust.”_  


This was weird. This was very, very weird. He searched for the last new flower, the coral roses, and was even further alarmed at their apparent meaning:  


_“Give your partner coral or orange roses to tell them you want to have sex! These bright flowers represent passion and desire.”_  


“Jesus!” he exclaimed, closing his laptop before he could read anything else. So, the new flowers apparently meant … desire? Lust? … Sex? But were the flowers on his skin a reflection of his own feelings, or Arthur’s? Did the huge mauve carnation Arthur’s lips had left on his neck mean that Arthur wanted him? Or were they just a confirmation of Alfred’s sneaking suspicion that he was totally, completely whipped for Arthur?  


Speaking of the Brit, Alfred noted that he had, in fact, taken the wrong jacket. There it was, that green army jacket that Alfred had stared at for what seemed like years, strewn about with the rest Alfred’s clothes. He grabbed it and without thinking held it up to his nose. The jacket smelled like Arthur - of course it did, who else would it smell like - but as Alfred breathed deeply, he tried to identify the scent. Maybe pine? Or spruce, or one of those other fancy-smelling trees? It smelled like deodorant, too. That was a nice smell. And maybe a little like weed, and something decidely floral. Whatever the combination of smells, Alfred liked it. Before he considered the consequences, he slipped the jacket on over his bare shoulders. Just as he suspected, it fit nicely. Too big on Arthur, just right on him. He looked at himself in the mirror, admiring the fit of the jacket, the crisp lines of the shoulders, the dark green with his golden blond hair.  


Then his eyes widened. What was he doing? Who did he think he was, wearing only boxers and Arthur’s jacket?  


He sat down quickly. He was fucked. Absolutely _fucked._ There was no way around it; he liked Arthur. He liked him a lot. He liked Arthur’s touch, and he liked to wear Arthur’s clothes. In fact, he liked it so much, he was beginning to think the old soulmate curse actually had merit. He could see himself getting to know Arthur, dating him, settling down. He didn’t know much about the Brit so far, but what he did, he liked quite a bit. He _liked_ Arthur, no ifs, ands, or buts.  


The revelation caught Alfred off guard. He imagined telling himself he’d have a crush on a guy - and he’d be wearing the guy’s jacket and nothing else - three months ago. His past self would’ve laughed in his face!  


He sat there for a while, clad in his boxers and Arthur’s jacket, face a mixture of panic and pensiveness. Why couldn’t these flowers just go away? At this rate, he might be wearing makeup for the next week - maybe even the next month! How was he going to explain the sheer amount of flowers on his skin to his parents? Or anyone else, really? He had to leave his room eventually. Oh god, his parents were going to assume he’d had sex! The thought had Alfred blushing. If he and Arthur did have sex, would he end up with flowers on his…?  


A knock on the front door interrupted Alfred’s panicked musings. He checked the time on his phone, suddenly worried - how much time had he wasted, sitting there thinking? Apparently it was only 3:30, so not too much time had passed. His phone screen was filled with a series of worried texts from Martha. He didn’t bother to read them. He’d talk to her in a bit, after he dealt with this visitor. He set his phone down and approached his front door warily.  


Who would come to his house at 3:30? It wasn’t Martha - she never knocked - and his parents weren’t supposed to be home yet, either. Hopefully it was just the UPS man.  


Alfred decided that whoever it was, he’d crack the door just a little, enough so that he could see whoever it was and they couldn’t see him. He didn’t need to put any more clothes on, because there was no way he’d open the door any more than a smidge. It was probably just the UPS guy.  


Another knock, this time more insistent, came from the door. Whoever it was seemed a bit impatient. Alfred crept to the door - god, he wished his door had a peephole, like the ones on hotel doors - and reached for the knob. Why was he shaking? He shook his head angrily. Worst case scenario, the UPS man saw him half-naked. So what?  


He opened the door a crack, and nearly yelped in alarm when he saw who was standing on his front stoop. Panicked, he closed the door in their face.  


Why was Arthur at his front door?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love that Honda is creeping in, lol. Arthur better pounce...  
> Also, if you read this chapter prior to August 31st, there was a big section missing. It's in there now, so everything's great! My apologies for being a stupid dum dum head who omits important parts of stories.


	12. Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred sort of accidentally brings Arthur to his room, and gay panic ensues.

“Alfred! Hello?” Arthur sounded a little perturbed at having the door slammed in his face.

Alfred didn’t answer. He stood with his back against his front door, breathing shakily. There was absolutely no way he was opening that door. Not with the flowers covering his entire body - flowers given to him by Arthur - and especially not with his current state of dress.

“Hello? Let me in!”

Alfred steeled himself. “Uh, sorry, I can’t let you in …” he tried in vain to come up with an excuse. “My cat’s … pregnant?”

_“What?”_

He grimaced. He didn’t even have a cat! “Yeah, she’s uh … gonna have … kittens? So you can’t come in!”

There was a beat of silence from the other side of the door. Then: “Alfred, you don’t have a cat.”

Alfred’s eyes widened in alarm. “Uh …” he said, grasping at straws for a reply. 

“You’re allergic to cats. And most flowers.”

How did Arthur know that? “Yeah, but … uh…”

“I get if you don’t want me to come into your house, I guess,” Arthur said testily. “I came over because I want to return something of yours. And I believe you may have something of mine.”

Alfred looked down at Arthur’s jacket, and his bare stomach beneath it. “Uh, about that …” he began carefully.

“Just open the door, Alfred. I’ll hand you the jacket and you can be rid of me.”

Alfred considered his options. He could come up with another lame excuse as to why Arthur could not enter his home, or he could open the door just a crack, grab his jacket, and run for his life. He nodded, shaking himself. He could do it! He _had_ to do it.

He opened the door slowly, peeking out. Arthur had his arms folded across his chest, looking up at the sky as if this was the last thing he wanted to be doing. His white-blond hair was stupidly poufy, and his emerald green eyes glittered beneath his stupid round-framed glasses. _Stupid._

“Kay, just hand me my jacket,” he said quietly. He thought about extending his hand out, but retracted it quickly when he remembered it was covered in flowers. “Then go away, please.”

Arthur frowned, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he said, pushing the jacket through the crack between door and frame.

Then, without warning, Arthur pushed the door open all the way. Alfred was taken off guard, and he stumbled back as the door flew open.

And then they just _stared_ at each other.

Arthur’s mouth fell open at the sight of Alfred - body covered in head to toe flowers, naked save for his American flag striped boxers and Arthur’s army jacket.

Alfred flushed hard, the tips of his ears going scarlet. He had nothing to say for himself, and nowhere to run, so he just stood dumbly, grimacing in embarrassment.

“Is that my …?” Arthur finally said, thick brows raised almost to the ceiling. 

Alfred began to shuck the jacket off, mumbling, “Sorry, I’ll take it off, sorry…”

But that meant that Alfred was going to be even _more_ naked than before, and Arthur wasn’t about to deal with that. His eyes went wide, and he quickly grabbed the lapels of the jacket in an effort to keep Alfred clothed, yelling, “Christ, don’t _strip!”_

Alfred did as he was told, wrapping the jacket around himself as if he just remembered he wasn’t wearing any clothes. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, turning an even deeper shade of crimson.

Arthur moved away from Alfred as if he’d been burned. “Bloody hell, Alfred! What is going on? And what’s with …” he gestured to the flowers. “All this?”

Alfred had shut down as a person. All of his human function was gone. He stared blankly at Arthur, motionless.

“Tattoos,” he finally said, slowly, as if reciting the pledge of allegiance.

“Okay, sure,” Arthur said, eyes narrowed. “The jacket?”

“Got … cold,” Alfred said, robotic. He was panicking so hard internally, his facial and vocal expression had gone dormant.

Arthur stared at him. “And you aren’t wearing any clothes because …?”

“Got … hot.”

Oh yes. This was going quite well.

“Okay, well,” Arthur began, drawing in a deep breath. He spoke as if he’d practiced a couple times: “I’m very sorry I wore your jacket to school today. I thought it would be, y’know, sort of a silly joke, but I saw your reaction in English, and I realized how rude and childish I’d acted. So here.” He shoved the jacket at Alfred’s chest. “Sorry.”

Alfred’s arms reacted a beat too late, and he somehow didn’t catch the jacket. It hit his chest and dropped to the ground unceremoniously. He looked down at it, surprised. 

“Are you … alright, mate?” Arthur asked carefully. “You were acting strange in English, too.”

Silly Arthur. He thought Alfred had been angry at the sight of him in the jock’s jacket. Hilarious, when Alfred had actually been _embarrassingly_ aroused.

Alfred blinked at Arthur. He was trying his absolute best to communicate using standard human social cues, but his efforts got lost on their way out of his mouth. He finally managed to say “I’m fine,” but it came out a bit robotic. Was it possible for the human brain to withstand this much mortification? Probably not. He was shutting down from overexposure to embarrassment.

Arthur huffed. “You don’t seem fine. You should drink water, and sit down. Where’s your kitchen?” He grabbed Alfred’s elbow carefully, supporting him.

“Room.”

“What?” Arthur asked, genuine concern and confusion written across his fair features.

“Water. In room.”

Alfred wanted to groan aloud. Was he just nonverbal now? Was this his new normal around his crush?

“Okay, well, where’s your room?” Arthur asked, a hint of humor coloring his voice. Did the Brit think this was _funny?_ He thought Alfred’s panic was _funny?_

Alfred began to walk up the stairs to his room, mind in a haze. Arthur followed close behind, fretting that the boy would topple down the stairs and perish.

They reached Alfred’s room unscathed, and Arthur pushed Alfred down on his bed. He located the glass of water on Alfred’s nightstand and handed it to the other boy gently. “Maybe you’re dehydrated.” Wasn’t that always the problem? Dehydration? No, the real problem was how _thirsty_ Alfred was for Arthur. 

Alfred gulped down the water, suddenly refreshed. It was like, well, a splash of cold water to the face, really. He realized how idiotic he was acting, and blushed. “I’m fine,” he told Arthur, setting the glass back down on his nightstand. “Gonna put some clothes on.”

He grabbed the sweats and sweatshirt from earlier that day and hurriedly pulled them on. He gave Arthur’s jacket back with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, I …” he said, but his mouth opened and closed unhelpfully. He really couldn’t find the words to explain himself.

Arthur took the jacket back, miffed. “Er, well, if you’re fine, then … I guess I’ll … be going?”

“Stay!”

Alfred wasn’t sure why he blurted that out. His eyes widened in surprise at his own utterance. “I mean, if you want,” he amended. “We could, uh. Hang out.”

Arthur cast him a suspicious look. "You want to … hang out?" he repeated.

"Yeah," Alfred replied, human function returning slowly. He wasn't sure why hanging out with Arthur was a good idea, but he just … wanted to. And maybe Arthur had some weed on him - he really wanted to smoke up again, relax, forget. 

"Do you have any, um..." Alfred scratched at his scalp, attempting to be casual. He made a vague gesture, miming pulling from a blunt, pretending to cough. "... good stuff?" 

Arthur considered for just a moment, his bespectacled face radiant and thoughtful in the sunlight filtering in through Alfred's bedroom window. "Nah," he finally said.

Alfred tried not to look disappointed. "Oh. Uh, why not?"

"I like to smoke when I'm nervous or stressed. It relaxes me. Otherwise I don't do it."

This made no sense to Alfred. Why not just smoke up whenever? Plus, could Arthur not see that Alfred was clearly nervous _and_ stressed?

Arthur sensed Alfred's confusion. "Weed isn't terribly addictive, but I know myself too well. If I start something, I can never stop. If I'm in, I'm in. When I fall, I fall hard." His gaze flicked momentarily to Alfred, but he quickly looked away. Alfred, of course, didn't notice. "Plus, I don't want to live my life in a haze. Sometimes, it's nice to leave the planet, but I do enjoy being present in the moment."

There was a beat of silence as the two boys considered Arthur’s words. Were they present in this moment? What _was_ this moment, exactly? Two boys, one room, and nothing to do? Was it the budding blooms of friendship … or was it perhaps something more than friendship? Alfred’s mind unhelpfully reminded him of the hot flood of pleasure that overwhelmed him every time Arthur touched him. He blushed, then cleared his throat."It’s good to be in the moment, except in Mrs. Bonam's class, right?" he jabbed, chuckling. "No one wants to be present there."

Arthur huffed a laugh. "What, you don't love the powerpoints she nabbed from another teacher, circa 2009?"

Alfred laughed out loud, and the two of them loosened up. They talked about everything and nothing. Arthur didn't bring up the flowers, although Alfred caught him staring more than a couple times. Most of them were covered by his long clothes, anyway, so Arthur mostly just checked out the mauve carnation on the other boy's neck. His eyes flashed, as if he remembered placing his lips there, as if he remembered what he'd done whilst he slept this morning.

But then Alfred would ask him a question, distracting him.

"Where'd you get those glasses, anyway?"

Arthur smirked in reply to Alfred's query. "Ah, well. They're cosmetic."

Alfred scoffed in disbelief. "Those are cosmetic? Are you _kidding_ me?"

"I like how they look on my face, okay?" Arthur exclaimed, defending himself. "Don't judge me!" 

"Oh my god. As a certified member of the Nearly Blind club, I take offense to your eyewear choice."

The Brit rolled his eyes. "Nearly blind, whatever. I've never seen you in glasses."

"I wear contacts, dumb dumb." Alfred said. "Glasses Alfred is a monster best left to rot in middle school."

"Oh, contacts. Right." Arthur was silent for a bit, looking as if he was debating his next words. "I really like glasses. That's why I got my fake ones."

Alfred pursed his lips. "Yeah, well, you probably wouldn't like them as much if you _had_ to wear them."

The Brit nodded, his hair falling over his brow. Alfred noticed that all traces of dye had faded from Arthur's hair. Weird. He almost missed the red ends - like the tips of Arthur's hair were blushing.

"Why did you have dyed hair?" Alfred asked, curiosity peaking.

"Ah yes," Arthur said. He appeared to mull over something for a bit, until he finally turned toward Alfred. "You won't tell anyone, will you? This is a tad embarrassing."

Alfred crossed his heart, then smiled. "Your secret is safe with me."

Arthur sighed. "I was supposed to come to New York for my foreign exchange trip. And I was so excited - finally, I'd be where the action was, in the beating heart of the fashion industry, brushing shoulders with the rich, the important! But then, when my exchange program told me there'd been a slight change of plans, well, I … I sort of, erm, lost my shit."

Alfred frowned. "What? How?"

"Well, I thought, y'know, a skinny gay British kid wouldn't fare well in a tiny hick town, so I'd better prepare. Make myself look different. More intimidating, more cool. So, I dyed my hair really dark, and I bought this tough-looking army jacket at a secondhand store, and I started wearing glasses, and I covered my old tattoo."

Alfred's eyes widened. "So, your old tattoo … was just a daisy?"

Arthur pulled up his sleeve, peering at his tattoo as if he'd forgotten about it. "Yeah. I got the daisy done as a kid, after I lost my mom. It used to have her name under the daisy, but I thought, _'bollocks, these farm kids are going to laugh at that,'_ so I had the artist ink over that. I thought it was sort of tough, y'know, kind of a 'kill the innocent' sort of vibe."

They looked at the tattooed blood dripping down Arthur's wrist. "It is quite badass,” Alfred admitted. “I was intimidated."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure my frosted tips made me look _very_ cool. It grew out a lot faster than I thought it would, and they didn't have any nice dye at the drugstore in town, so the red faded. I think I looked pretty stupid."

Alfred chuckled. "Now that I know it was just a ruse, I sort of want to laugh. At first, though, I thought you looked mysterious. Kinda edgy, kinda interesting.” Then he paused. “The more I think about it … your hair did kind of look like cotton candy.”

”Hey!” Arthur yelled, and shoved him playfully. The movement jostled the many oversensitive flowers on Alfred’s neck and shoulders, and he couldn't contain the garbled noise that bubbled out of him. 

"Ah-"

Arthur stilled, worried. “Bloody hell, mate, you’re sensitive there. Sorry." He reached out toward Alfred's neck, checking for bruises. 

Alfred tried to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head as Arthur’s fingers brushed his neck. “No - I’m not…” he managed to squeak out, his hands clenched into fists.

“Sorry again." Then Arthur noticed that Alfred wasn't in _pain_ \- it was a _different_ sort of sensitive. Alfred hoped the flush that was spreading up his neck wasn't too noticeable.

Arthur tried for nonchalance. "Hey, don’t worry about it," he said comfortingly. "It’s probably just one of your zones.”

Arthur’s hand finally left, leaving the ghost of fire behind. Alfred’s mind temporarily cleared, and he tried to regain his bearings whilst acting unaffected. “My … what?”

“You know,” Arthur said, huffing. “Zones. Erogenous zones.”

“Air- _who_ -da-gus??” Alfred started to ask, but Arthur was already explaining.

_“Christ,_ American sexaul education sucks. _Erogenous_ zones. They’re zones on the body that have heightened sensitivity to touch, especially in a, erm …” he trailed off, losing confidence. “Sexual context.” He glanced at Alfred's high flush and dilated pupils, then looked away quickly. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh,” is all Alfred could manage to say.

“Yeah.”

Alfred deliberated for a second. Then: “So, like … your dick?”

_“Bloody hell!"_ Arthur yelled, blushing hard. "Yes, obviously your dick, you absolute knob." He took a deep breath, studying Alfred. "But there’s other spots too. They’re different for each person.”

“Huh.” Alfred paused for a second, wanting desperately to ask but feeling trepidation. He gulped, then asked anyway: “So, what are your … erogenous zones?”

Arthur immediately colored, blushing an even deeper scarlet. “I beg your pardon,” he stuttered. “That isn’t something you go around _asking_ people.”

“Well, you're the one who brought it up!"

Arthur huffed, crossing his arms and pointedly looking away from Alfred. He was obviously attempting to calm his furious blush, but was fighting a losing battle. He finally answered in a quiet voice: “My hands.”

Alfred's eyes widened. "Your … hands?" he asked, voice a step lower than normal. “Like - your whole hand? Or, just part -”

Alfred let out a strangled yelp of surprise as Arthur reached for his hand, holding it lightly between his. “For me, this feels nice,” he said, running the tips of his fingers lightly over Alfred’s palm. Alfred swallowed thickly. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve thought this was beyond strange, and as he stared in awe at his own hand, cradled between Arthur’s ivory ones, alarm bells rang in his head. This was a _terrible_ idea - new flowers were going to pop up on Alfred’s skin, perhaps even covering the ones that were already there. If Arthur saw them, he'd truly see through his flimsy “heat-activated tattoos” excuse. But as Arthur’s fingers moved like whispers over his skin, fingernails barely scraping over his palms, he felt less panicked and more … fuzzy. This was like being high all over again, except he was still _there,_ still present in the moment. The heat, the feeling of Arthur’s touch - normally overwhelming, all-encompassing - was soft now, soft and insistent. Arthur was gently knocking on a door Alfred hadn’t known existed, a door he wasn’t sure he wanted to open. 

Arthur’s fingers began to trail down Alfred’s wrist, circling his pulse point with only the faintest hint of a touch. Alfred’s breath hitched involuntarily at the sensation, and he blushed as he felt his blood quickly travel south. Normally, his hands weren’t that sensitive, right? He’d never noticed them before, but now his mind was filled with just that - hands, his hands, Arthur’s hands gently caressing his.

“I guess that, uh,” he began, hoping he didn’t outwardly appear as blissed out and turned on as he was. “I guess that my hands might be air-obnijus zones for me, too.”

Arthur chuckled at Alfred’s mispronunciation, then let go of his hand. His laughter turned to a slight smirk. “Was it the inside of your wrist?” he asked, his eyes alight with a look Alfred had never seen before. Alfred nodded, abashed, in reply. 

“Your turn, then, Mr. Curious. I told you mine, now you have to tell me yours.”

“You only have one spot?” Alfred asked, incredulous.

“Of course not, wanker. But I’m not telling you about them until you cough up the details on yours.”

The mere act of talking about erogenous zones was starting to make Alfred feel hot around the collar. He knew his face was growing steadily redder, and he avoided making eye contact with the Brit. Why did he keep putting heavy clothes on when he knew he was about to get into sweaty situations? He pulled his sleeve down to hide the new flowers blooming on his hand, considering how to answer. He elected to tell the truth. 

“I guess … I was with this girl once, in freshman year. It didn’t go very well overall, but sometimes when she … well, when we were, uh, making out and stuff … I sorta liked it when she touched my belly, y’know, right here -” at this point, he rubbed his lower stomach, right above his waistband, the very place that Arthur’s hand had rested during their cuddle session last night - “and also, one time she kissed my ear by accident, and that was very nice…” he trailed off, knowing he’d already spilled too much. “And also sometimes she’d kinda scratch her fingernails through my hair? And that felt ... nice.” He took in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Sorry. TMI.”

“It’s alright,” Arthur said, although he seemed distracted, almost fidgety. He looked at Alfred, an unreadable gaze, something akin to hunger. His green eyes were dark and needy with want. 

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the jingling of keys coming from downstairs. _Shit._ Alfred's parents were home from work. They'd been talking for … he checked his phone. Two and a half hours? His phone was flooded with messages and missed calls from Martha. Oops.

"I should go," Arthur said.

"Oh. Okay," Alfred replied, deflating. "What were you going to say?"

Arthur looked at him with an strange expression, thick brows furrowed, eyes squinted ever so slightly. "Nothing," he said, gaze roving across the flowers on Alfred's face and neck. He glanced down at Alfred's hands, and Alfred could've sworn the boy saw the new flowers developing on his skin. If he did notice, he didn't show any sign, expression carefully blank.

He stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket from the ground. Then he slipped out of Alfred's room and out of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I heap on the gay panic? Yes, yes I did. Also, I love that Arthur was going for this mysterious, too-cool macho thing, and Alfred fell head over heels for it. Lol. Now he's going to start looking more like he does in the canon (and alfred's gonna lose his shit, obviously) and Alfred will start wearing glasses, and everything will be back to normal. Sorry it took 12 chapters for this to happen.   
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated.


	13. Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martha convinces Alfred to go to a house party, even though Alfred doesn't drink. But hey, Arthur won't be there, so everything should be fine, right?

"We're going. We are _definitely_ going."

Alfred groaned unhappily, whining, "Why?"

Martha folded her arms. "Because! We haven't been to a party in a while, and I wanna get _fucked up!_ I know you're into the whole abstinence thing, and I get that, whatever, but I wanna go to the party, so we're both going to the party."

"I hate parties, Martha!" Alfred grumbled. He pushed up his red-framed glasses, frowning. He hadn't worn his glasses in years, but after the conversation with Arthur, he'd started wearing them all the time. He liked how they fit on his face, and this way his eyeballs didn't get randomly itchy. Plus, Arthur said he liked glasses, that he had a _thing_ for glasses, so ... Alfred may or may not have been influenced by that. Possibly. He sighed, returning to his conversation with Martha. "You know I hate parties! Everyone else gets stupid drunk and I just stand there and feel stupid."

"That's not too hard, since you're already dumb."

"Hey!"

They were arguing in the back of Bonam's English, paying no attention whatsoever to the group who was presenting their project on how _Hamlet_ relates to basketball. The project was a stretch, even for Alfred's tastes. It was a lovely Friday afternoon, and the thrill of springtime in May had the school buzzing. Seniors could barely sit still, let alone focus on something as arbitrary as Shakespeare. Alfred gazed out the window longingly, wishing he was outside to soak up the spring sun, the cool breeze, the green grass. He sighed and turned back to Martha. "I don't want to go to this party."

The party in question was a routine shindig at someone's house - in Farmington, it didn't really matter whose house the party was at, since everyone attended every time, and no one's parents really seemed to care. In fact, most parents supplied the kids with beer - a fact that should be alarming, but hey. That's the Midwest!

Martha gave Alfred a wide-eyed, pleading look. "We haven't done anything fun or normal in _months,_ Alfred! Ever since you got sick, and then the whole curse thing …" she sighed, trailing off. "Alfie, we literally haven't even hung out outside of school. You've probably spent more time with Kirkland than with me."

Alfred blushed hard. "Not true," he protested, sullen. He'd told her about the disaster meet up at his house two days ago, and since then, she'd relentlessly teased him. 

"Yeah, whatever," Martha replied bitterly. Then she brightened. "Besides. Your skin just cleared up, so what's holding you back?"

"Well…" Alfred started, but he really didn't have any other reasons to _not_ attend. True, he hated parties on principle, but sometimes he had fun if he acted drunk enough. Plus, he could dance like no one was watching, putting some bold moves on display, and everyone would think he was blackout drunk, not uncoordinated. And Martha was right - he hadn't done much of anything since he'd gotten sick in March. He wasn't about to let some stupid curse stop him from having a night of fun! It was his senior year. He only had a little bit of time left to attend high school parties! And Arthur was obviously much too aloof to be there, so what could go wrong?

___

Apparently, everything could go wrong.

The trouble started right when Alfred walked through the door. The party was hosted by one of his football teammates, a big, burly guy named Tony Vargas. Tony's parents owned the only Italian restaurant in town - virtually the only restaurant in town, seeing as there were only four places to eat - and were thus accordingly loaded. The house was nice, the furniture was nicer, and the decor looked like it came straight from a stock photo. Alfred immediately felt queasy - he knew his classmates, and he knew their capabilities. They were more than likely to smash the shit out of all the nice things in the house.

Martha immediately peered over Alfred’s shoulder, clearly looking for someone. “Who are you so keen on seeing?” Alfred said, teasing.

Martha blushed from head to toe. “I’m not _keen_ on seeing anyone,” she grumbled, but a second later, she was back to searching. Alfred noted her outfit - heavy on the plunging neckline and bare midriff, and her makeup, heavy on the blush and glitter. She was definitely dressing to impress. Was it the mystery girl from a few months ago? Or someone new? Either way, Alfred wasn’t in the mood for a meltdown when it went south.

Tony appeared out of nowhere, greeting the pair with a loud _"Ciao!"_ Normally, the guy was gruff, even bordering on mean, but when he got into the liquor - which was quite often, something about his Italian blood making him more attracted to spirits - he loosened up and got _loud._ When he was drunk, he was unafraid to embrace his Italian traits, which was drastically different from his demeanor at school. At school, he punched anyone who even mentioned the restaurant, and stayed quiet, simmering, during classes. Here, he was the opposite: any seasoned partygoer knew to stay at least a couple feet away whenever Tony was talking, because a drunk Tony was an ear splitting Tony, his joviality apparent in his 300+ decibel shouts.

”Hey, Tony,” Alfred said, trying not to laugh as Tony took a swig of vodka straight from the bottle and missed spectacularly. “Nice party.”

Tony burped unceremoniously. “Yeah, well, Feli planned it and decorated. I just bought booze.”

Alfred and Martha nodded. It made sense - Felix, Tony’s younger brother, was artistic and effeminate, preferring art over sports and wine over anything. He was just a junior, but his brother’s status as a hot-headed jock placed him in the ranks of Farmington’s most popular. Alfred peered over the heads of friends and classmates, and there he was, talking to Honda. Feli looked so similar to Tony, the same auburn hair, dark eyes, and long legs, but he was skinny where Tony was buff, his edges much smoother than his angry brother. The boy was draped against a wall, head angled to the side, wine glass held delicately in his hand like it belonged there. As Feli took a sip of the dark liquid, Alfred admired the smooth dip of his throat, the sharpness of his Adam’s apple. The more he thought about Tony’s brother, the more he wondered: was Feli gay? He had to be. If he wasn’t, that’d be a damn shame.

“You ogling my brother, man?” Tony slurred, snapping Alfred’s attention back to him and Martha. 

”Uh, no. Nope,” Alfred said, carefully avoiding eye contact with Martha, who he knew was smirking at him. He looked back at Feli once more, only to find Honda glaring at him. He turned, looking behind him, but no - Honda was definitely looking daggers directly at him. He turned back, looking sheepishly at the floor. What had he done to piss Honda off?

”Anyway, we’re going to grab something to drink,” Martha said, dragging Alfred away from Tony, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Jesus, Alfred - stare much?” she teased, dipping a plastic cup in the communal mystery punch bowl. “You’re creating problems already. Now Honda is jealous.” She raised the mixture to her lips, sniffed, and downed it in one gulp. Number one rule at Farmington house parties: don’t ask what’s in the mystery punch. Just pound it down, even if it tastes a little suspicious.

”I didn’t _mean_ to stare,” Alfred mumbled, taking a glass of mystery punch and eyeing it warily. “It’s like, well, since I’ve realized I’m bi, I kind of … appreciate guys more.” He took a tentative sip of punch - yep, that shit was disgusting. He put his cup back on the counter, grimacing. “And why is Honda jealous?”

”Jeez, you’re obtuse!” Martha said, grabbing a hard seltzer. “Feli is gay, dude. Honda’s gay too. They’ve been flirting a bit - plus, Honda likes you.”

Alfred spluttered. “He - _what?”_

“Honda likes you, you idiot. That thing in the hall the other day? The way he always insists on a high-five, or some other dumb shit when he sees you? And the way he looks at you during class?”

Alfred grimaced. This was bad. Honda liked him … romantically? But he also liked Feli? And Alfred had just stared unabashedly at Feli ... right in front of Honda? Oops.

”I guess I just didn’t know … either of them were gay,” Alfred said finally, looking morosely at his mystery punch. God. How did people drink this stuff? 

”I thought _everybody_ knew that,” Martha said, scoffing. 

”Oh.” He paused, picking up his cup. He’d be holding onto it for the rest of the night, pretending to drink. _What fun!_ “I guess there are a lot of things that everyone knows except for me.”

They both knew what he meant - keeping the curse a secret from him still stung, even months later. Martha frowned. “Hey, let’s not think about that right now, okay? It’s no fun. Let’s have _fun!”_

Then she danced away to the living room, downing a hard seltzer. Alfred groaned. Fifteen minutes into this party, and he’d already pissed off two people: Tony, for accidentally ogling his younger brother, and apparently Honda, for the same reason. And he could just _feel_ that Martha was going to do something she regretted by the end of the night - she was already well on her way towards inebriation, and judging by her outfit and her roaming eyes, she had a plan. Alfred prayed it would work out.

___

An hour or so passed, and things started to get worse. Everyone around Alfred had grown steadily more intoxicated, to the point where more than a few people were making out, some were stripping off random clothing items, and a couple were vomiting. It was nearing the time that drama started - as it always inevitably did at high school parties.

Alfred had danced a bit, chatted a bit, but now he was beginning to feel tired - and annoyed. He sat in a corner on a ridiculously poofy leather armchair, hoping he didn’t spill his untouched punch on the expensive upholstery. He was really perfecting his skills as a wallflower. He was in the middle of mentally congratulating himself on his ability to blend in with his inebriated fellows when he was interrupted by a _very_ drunk Honda. 

“Heyyy,” the boy slurred, swaying into Alfred’s personal space. “Why’re you sitting here -” he paused to hiccup “- all alone?”

Alfred sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood for this - now that he knew Honda liked him, everything was awkward. “I’m just chillin’,” Alfred replied, leaning away from the other boy.

The more Alfred leaned away, though, the closer Honda got. The boy had this knowing smile on his face, this self-assured smirk, and finally he slumped over and flopped into Alfred’s lap.

”Whoa, hey - what’re you doing, man?” Alfred said, trying but failing to push the boy off. “Dude, what the -”

Honda cut him off with a finger on his lip. “Shhh,” he said, sly smile. “I _know.”_

Alfred’s eyes widened. He knew … what? What did he know? About the curse? About Alfred’s newfound sexuality? Alfred tried to keep his face blank, but his eyes must have betrayed something, because Honda’s smirk grew into a grin. “I know you like boys ... I saw the way you were looking at Feli," he whispered, trailing his finger from Alfred’s lip down his jaw. “And I know about the curse.”

Alfred squirmed uncomfortably, which Honda must have taken as a sign to continue. His finger continued its path downward, tracing Alfred’s jawline, down the side of his neck, skating over his collarbone. Alfred swallowed. What was happening? And why didn’t he have the courage to tell Honda _no?_

Honda’s eyes were dark with want, and he blinked at Alfred with half-lidded eyes. “I know I’m the _one,”_ he said, smiling coquettishly. “I saw the flowers when I touched your hand.”

Alfred frowned. Honda knew about the curse - all of the curse, flowers and everything - and he thought _he_ was Alfred’s soulmate? He reviewed the last couple of months in his head: Honda constantly bumping into him in the halls, giving him high fives and shoulder bumps - any excuse to touch Alfred, really - the millions of times Honda had smiled at him, laughed at his dumb jokes in class ... Honda always in the background, _watching_... That whole time, was the boy thinking he was Alfred’s soulmate? He must have been trying to make the flowers appear on Alfred’s skin! Alfred had thought Honda was just clumsy, not … _pursuing_ him! Alfred’s eyes narrowed. He thought back to that strange encounter in the hall, when Honda had surprised him by squeezing his hand. Honda had thought Alfred’s reaction was the result of a _realization!_ Little did he know Alfred was already covered in flowers from Arthur. Oh god, Honda had been stalking Alfred for god knows how long, convinced that he was the curse-breaker. How was Alfred going to tell Honda the truth - that his pursuits were in vain, that _Arthur_ was the one? How to explain this while Honda dragged his finger down Alred’s chest, placing a hand over his heart?

”I’ve been following you almost all year, Alfred,” Honda said, voice low. “You’re so _hot_ during basketball practice.” Alfred gulped, blushing despite his best attempts not to. Honda had _stalked_ him, Honda was being so _creepy_ … he’d been watching Alfred play _basketball?_ Despite the alarm bells going off in his head, Alfred had to admit that Honda was quite beautiful too - his hair shiny and dark, complexion somehow flawless, monolidded eyes dark like black coffee. He had nice lips, too, like a k-pop idol … wait, were those lips getting _closer?_ Alfred’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, his hands moving to push Honda away, but it was too late - Honda was already kissing him.

Alfred had been kissed before - a peck in middle school, a few makeouts with his freshman year girlfriend. Kissing a boy, though, was a whole new ball game. Honda didn’t kiss submissively, he took what he wanted, pulling on Alfred’s lower lip with his teeth. Alfred tried to protest, pushing against Honda’s chest with two hands. He finally succeeded, and he gasped for breath. “Honda,” he said warily, holding the boy away. “It isn’t how you think it is -” 

But Honda just grinned, cutting Alfred off as if he hadn’t heard him. He probably hadn’t, judging by his unfocused eyes and the smell of alcohol on his breath. “Alfred,” he breathed, leaning in again. “Why won’t you call me Kiku?”

Alfred knew Honda’s real name was Kiku, but he just … never called him that. No one ever did. It had never occurred to Alfred that Honda might not like his nickname. He tried again, still with a firm grip on the other boy to keep him from assaulting him: “Kiku, listen…”

But apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Honda - Kiku - sighed happily. _“Yes,_ say it _again,”_ he said, and god, he must’ve been blackout drunk at this point, because when he lunged forward and pressed his lips to Alfred’s again, it was clumsy, even sloppy.

Alfred couldn’t say he was enjoying the kiss too much - between Kiku’s relentless tenacity, pushing Alfred back into the armchair, straddling him, never even taking a break for air, and his smelly breath and dead-weight limbs, Alfred felt more like he was being smothered than kissed. He tried to push Kiku away, putting all of his force behind the shoves, but Kiku had him pinned against the chair. Alfred considered trying to wriggle his way out, but Kiku might take that as a sign of something _else._ So instead, he sat back and tried to imagine it was Arthur kissing him instead of Kiku. With that image in mind, he relaxed into the kiss - he let Kiku tilt his head to the side, let him explore his mouth. He pretended those lips were Arthur’s lips, lips that frowned at him, a mouth that laughed at him, laughed _with_ him. He imagined Arthur’s sharp cheekbones and jawline instead of Kiku’s, imagined that the hard press of Kiku’s chest against his was Arthur’s. 

He imagined how electric it must feel to kiss Arthur. His hands alone left Alfred gasping and writhing in pleasure - his lips must be even more amazing. He remembered the intensity of Arthur’s lips on his neck, that night when they’d fallen asleep together … and now he was enjoying the kiss _much_ more. He arched up into Kiku’s touch, imagining it was Arthur whose tongue so roughly licked the inside of his mouth, imaging Arthur's hands on his face, on his neck... he mumbled, _"Arthur..."_

And then it was over.

Alfred gasped in relief, panting for breath as he opened his eyes wearily. It wasn’t Arthur kissing him - it was Kiku, who was somehow … on the floor?

Alfred looked up in alarm to find a tuft of white-blond hair, a sneering mouth, and emerald green eyes that held one emotion: betrayal.

”Arthur?” he asked, confused. “How did you -”

He was cut off by an enraged Kiku pulling himself up off the ground. “What the fuck, Kirkland?” he said, rage undeniable. “Could you nnnnot see we were ... a little _busy?”_ he slurred.

Arthur looked to Alfred, who tried to convey without speaking how grateful he was for the intrusion. Arthur stared at him, gaze indecipherable. He looked angry, and flushed; but there was something else there, too. The boy looked … _heartbroken._

”Arthur, I -” Alfred began, but he faltered. What was he supposed to say? Arthur probably thought he’d been _willingly_ making out with Kiku! That’s what it had looked like, anyway. Oh, he was fucked.

Arthur looked like he was going to say something, mouth opening, but he closed it abruptly. He glared at Kiku, then turned to give Alfred one last calculating look. Then he stormed away.

Alfred wiped his mouth with the back of his hand - Kiku had left more than a little drunk spit on him. Gross. He turned to the boy in question, who was still half-sprawled on the floor. “Kiku!” he hissed. Kiku turned to him, a dopey smile on his face. “Quit smiling, man! I’m not the one! _You’re_ not the one!” He ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed at his face angrily. “Damnit!”

Kiku looked incredibly confused. “What?” he asked, but he was so drunk he got tired halfway through the word.

”Jesus, man! How can I put this plainly?” Alfred grabbed Kiku’s hand, placing it against his cheek. “Look! No reaction. No _flowers!”_

Understanding began to dawn on Kiku. “But …” he said, caressing Alfred’s cheek with that hand.

Alfred slapped Kiku’s hand away. “You can’t just go around _kissing_ people like that! Ever heard of _consent?_ Jesus.” He frowned. How was he going to explain this to Arthur? “You’ve ruined _everything!”_

Sadness clouded Kiku’s features, and a tear dripped from his eye. “B- but Alfred …” he blubbered.

”Save it,” Alfred snapped. Then he sighed. Yeah, Kiku had acted shitty, and making out with someone without their consent was a real douche move. But Alfred still felt bad for the guy. He’d been excited for months, thinking he was Alfred’s soulmate. Alfred could only imagine the disappointment and heartbreak he was feeling. Plus, with how drunk he was, he’d have a killer hangover tomorrow. So, Alfred hoisted the boy up into the armchair, and went to fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen. He returned and shoved the glass in Kiku’s hand. “Drink this. Sober up, okay? And just … leave me alone from now on.”

Kiku nodded morosely, sniffling. He looked so pathetic now, where minutes ago he was in charge, pinning Alfred back against the chair. Alfred grimaced. How was he going to fix this?

Then he spotted a flash of blond heading up the stairs. What was Arthur going to do up there? That was Tony and Feli’s parents’ room! Alfred looked around at his classmates, all in various stages of inebriation. Not one of them had even bothered to look in Alfred and Kiku’s direction, let alone help Alfred while Kiku slowly smothered him to death. If they hadn’t noticed Alfred almost get molested, they surely wouldn’t notice Alfred sneak up the stairs after Arthur.

He quickly and quietly flew up the stairs. He had to fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I tried to make the situation with Honda/Kiku as non-rapey as possible ... I wanted to make it uncomfortable for Alfred and truly showcase the dumbassery of Honda and of high school parties. Hopefully it didn't go into too dark of a territory. Also, I love the symbolic idea of America and Japan as a failed ship, because throughout history there has been this love/hate, I'm stronger than you/I'm more technologically advanced than you power struggle that I find interesting. And then WWII happened. So that's why I slapped that in there.  
> Also, in case you were confused: Tony and Felix were aph italy - Lovino and Feliciano, respectively. I americanized them a little, so yeah. I could have left their names as they were in the canon, but since I put this in a modern midwestern setting, I was like, 'hey I'll take some liberties here because when's the last time you met a boy in the midwest named lovino"  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! The action doesn't stop here!


	14. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred searches the Vargas' house for Arthur, hoping to make things right. Oh, and he finally figures out who Martha is pining over ;-)

Alfred crept up the Vargas' stairs carefully. Arthur had to be up here, but opening doors at random at a house party was a real gamble. Alfred didn't want to stumble in on something he couldn't unsee. He hesitated outside the first door, contemplating the pros and cons of opening it. Bursting in on a couple making out - or worse, getting downright _nasty_ \- would be quite scarring and could earn Alfred a black eye. Or two. Girls in the midwest didn't mind slapping the shit out of people who walked in on them. Best case scenario, Arthur was alone behind that door, worst case scenario, well …  


Alfred huffed. Why was he hesitating? He needed to find Arthur and make things right before it was too late. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and peeked in. Oh god. There were definitely two people on the bed gettin freaky, but the one on the bottom was … blond? Alfred gasped. _"Arthur?"_ he asked, incredulous.  


The blonde head popped up, looking about in confusion. _"Who?"_  


Then the other person turned around to face Alfred. _"Alfred?"_ they asked, embarrassment coloring their voice.  


Alfred focused on the second person - it was hard to tell who it was in the dark, but … _"Martha?"_  


"What are you doing in here?" Martha hissed at him.  


"I'm, uh, looking for Arthur …"  


The second person - definitely female, definitely not Arthur - spoke up. "Well, he isn't in here …" then they trailed off, as if embarrassed.  


Who _was_ that? Alfred squinted in the dark: shoulder length blonde hair, light blue eyes, cute and curvy … was that …  


_"Maddy?_ Maddy _Williams?"_  


"Yes?" Maddy answered quietly.  


Alfred gaped at the two of them. "Martha …" he began. "You and … _Maddy?_ Maddy _Williams?"_  


Martha blushed so hard it was visible even in the low light. "Uh, yeah, Alfred. Now, can you … leave us alone, please?"  


Alfred slowly backed out of the room. This whole time, Martha had been crushing on _Maddy Williams,_ of all people? Maddy was just this … quiet little farmer girl. She wore overalls and pigtails and she was just so … so … well, now that he thought about it - _perfect_ for Martha. He closed the door quietly behind him, deep in thought. Martha was so boisterous and outspoken, unapologetic. No wonder she was into Maddy - shy, reserved, polite. After all, opposites attract. Well - it seemed as if Martha's plan of wearing next to no clothing and getting wasted had actually worked out for her. How strange. Why couldn't Alfred have the same luck?  


He shook his head, determined to find Arthur. Even if he had to bust down every door in the Vargas' house, he'd find that boy and make things right. He gritted his teeth and headed to the next room.  


The door swung open easily, and Alfred braced himself for more scarring visuals. He peeked in cautiously - but instead of people getting freaky, there was … nothing. No one.  


"Hello?" Alfred called, worried. An empty bedroom at a house party? That just wasn't right.  


He crept around the bed, squinting in the dimness. He was about to give up and try the next room when he tripped over something, falling to the floor with a startled grunt.  


"Oh, bugger off!" came a voice, British accent unmistakable.  


"Arthur?" Alfred called, righting himself. "Is that you?"  


Arthur replied with a too-loud, "'Course it's me. I told you to sod off." Then there was a mysterious thump.  


_"Arthur?_ Arthur - hey, Arthur!" Alfred whispered, crawling over to the Brit's side. "Arthur?" The boy had fallen on his side, crumpled over like a rag doll. The thump? His head on the baseboard.  


Arthur groaned. "I'm just - uugghh…" he trailed off. "I'm just bloody rat-arsed right now, mate, and I saw you, you and that … _boy,_ and you were …" he trailed off again. He seemed to be having difficulties stringing words together into sentences. "So I saw that, and you looked, well, bloody _into it_ , y'know? So I went to the kitchen, and I probably got a little pissed and drank like, I dunno, _wayyyy_ too much of that punch? And like, not sure what you Americans put in that shit, but _bollocks,_ I'm shit-faced now, mate."  


Arthur finished his diatribe with a huff, flopping back onto the floor. Alfred gaped at him. "Man, that's more than I've heard you say … like, ever."  


All Arthur said in reply was, "Nngh." As to if it was a "yes" or "no" nngh was unclear.  


Alfred scooted slightly closer and poked Arthur lightly. "Are you alright?"  


Arthur didn't reply, only curling up slightly. Finally, he sighed deeply. "Do you like that guy? What's his name, bollocks… some car company? Mitsubishi?"  


Alfred frowned. No wonder Honda hated his nickname. It just led to … so many problems. "Um, Honda?" he corrected.  


"Yeah," Arthur said gruffly. "Him."  


Alfred rolled his eyes. How was he going to explain to a very drunk Arthur what had happened? The boy was barely coherent.  


"Arthur, I -" he began, but Arthur cut him off.  


_"Honda?_ What kind of name is Honda anyway?"  


Alfred tried to continue, talking over Arthur’s drunk ramblings. "Listen, Artie, he kissed me, and I didn't want him -"  


Arthur cut him off again. "I mean, _Honda?_ Like, just because the guy looks like the leader of a K-pop group doesn't mean he gets to parade around and -"  


"Arthur, _listen,_ it was a terrible kiss, actually, he just climbed all over me, and -"  


"Sure, the kid has _really_ nice legs, and not to mention his _skin,_ I mean, how does someone get skin that clear? Did he have to bribe God or some shit -"  


"Arthur, for Pete's sake, listen to me! It was a terrible kiss! I hated it!"  


Arthur finally quieted for a bit, licking his lips. "You looked like you were enjoying it."  


Alfred’s mind flashed back to what he had imagined during the kiss, and he blushed, hoping his red cheeks weren't visible in the darkness. "Well, I…"  


"So you _did_ enjoy it," Arthur said, smug. The smugness was tinged with a bit of what sounded like sadness.  


"Arthur, I … I didn't like the kiss, the only reason I responded like that was because -"  


"Because he's like _bloody_ hot -"  


"BECAUSE I IMAGINED IT WAS _YOU!"_  


Arthur rolled over so fast he must've gotten whiplash. _"What?"_ he asked, voice barely a whisper.  


Alfred sucked in a deep breath. "I only kissed him like that," he paused, growing quieter, "because I imagined I was kissing you."  


Silence reigned for what felt like an eternity.  


Then, finally: "Oh."  


Arthur had seemed to sober up at least a little - he sat up so the two of them were leaning against the wall, side by side. They couldn't bear to look at each other, even though their eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness. It was like a dare, a competition: whoever looked first lost. The air crackled with energy. If Alfred finally looked over at Arthur, what would he see? Was he ready for what would happen next?  


They turned to each other in tandem, just a slight turn of the head. Sky blue met emerald green, and their eyes said everything and nothing. Alfred's breath stuttered as his skin hummed in anticipation. He licked his lips - why was he suddenly so _thirsty_ \- and watched as Arthur's gaze traced the movement. The Brit's eyes flicked back up to meet Alfred's, stare intense with a million unsaid truths.  


Alfred couldn't take it any longer - he closed the distance between them, crashing their lips together. At the first brush of Arthur's lips against his own, he felt a literal bolt of electricity travel down his spine, flooding his senses with heat, tingling in his fingers and toes. He melted against Arthur, breath caught in his throat from the overwhelming sensation. Arthur didn't hesitate to press in further, tongue exploring Alfred's mouth, hands rushing up to cup the other boy's jaw, and _oh god,_ it was just what Alfred had imagined while kissing Honda … that thought had all his blood rushing south, but he didn't care, he just needed that electric feeling of Arthur's lips on his own.  


They broke apart, gasping for breath, and Alfred considered for just a moment the implications of the current situation. He was kissing _Arthur._ He was _making out_ with Arthur in his classmate's parents' _bedroom,_ and he was already hard as hell. Arthur was sitting on his hips, and there was no way he hadn't noticed Alfred's situation …. oh god - the _flowers!_ Could he get flowers on his lips? What would Arthur say when he saw them?  


His moment of hesitation passed, however, when Arthur pressed forward gently, pushing Alfred flat against the carpeted floor. Then they were kissing again, kissing like breathing, pushing and pulling, pleasure washing over him in waves. He needed to get his hands in that cotton candy hair, so he did - both hands combing through the Brit's hair from his temple to the nape of his neck. Alfred's entire body thrummed with crazy energy, hot pins and needles flashing on his skin - until it was gone. He opened his eyes, bewildered. Arthur had pulled back, and Alfred almost whined at the loss. Then just as soon as he’d left, he was back, leaning down and nibbling on Alfred's lower lip.  


Alfred's brain short circuited. Oh _jesus_ why did that feel so good? His hips bucked up instinctively, a throaty gasp leaving him without his permission. He blushed from head to toe in embarrassment, but then Arthur leaned in and did it again, and _fuck,_ stars exploded behind Alfred's eyes. He rolled his hips again, head thrown back, wanton noises escaping him. Was this _Alfred?_ Alfred F. Jones? He almost laughed at himself, at how ridiculous he must've looked - moaning like he wanted everyone to hear, back arched like a girl on a centerfold.  


Arthur apparently didn't think he looked ridiculous - he sat up, pupils blown wide, lips slick, panting. He stared down at Alfred the way he'd wanted to for months, eyes full of lust, inhibitions gone. Alfred took a moment to admire the sight: Arthur straddling him, knees on either side of Alfred's arms, too-big shirt slipping off of one shoulder. His pouf of white blond hair looked positively wrecked from Alfred's fingers - he needed to do that again. His hands itched just thinking about carding his fingers through the soft locks.  


So he did just that, reaching up to run his fingers through Arthur's hair. He trailed his hands down Arthur's face, cupping his jaw - then Arthur surprised him by catching one of his hands and bringing it to his lips. Alfred almost protested until Arthur trailed his lips over his palm, kissing the soft skin at the inside of Alfred's wrist. Alfred had to close his eyes as pleasure cascaded from that point outward, turning his limbs to jelly. Why did that feel so _good?_ Alfred almost huffed out a laugh, but it turned into a breathy sigh on the way out.  


Then he remembered their conversation in his room - what seemed like eons ago, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window, illuminating Arthur's ivory skin, making his eyes sparkle as he’d said - "y'know, one of your _zones."_ That look in his green eyes had been pure lust, but Alfred had been so clueless - Arthur had been flirting with him for _months_ but Alfred was just so damn _clueless._ Did Arthur remember all of Alfred's erogenous zones? There was no way; it'd been such a brief conversation.  


But as Arthur leaned back down, he ghosted his lips over Alfred's ear, and _oh man oh shit_ he definitely remembered. He remembered everything, because of course he did, and as he left open-mouthed kisses against the shell of Alfred's ear, his hand came up to trail over the skin above Alfred's waistband. _Fuck._ Alfred felt his entire body flush, somehow going a deeper shade of crimson. He gasped and writhed about, breathless, body overwhelmed with sensation. How many flowers did he have by now? How long had they been doing … this? A minute? An hour? Arthur surprised Alfred out of his contemplation by adding a hand to his scalp, scratching lightly, pulling hair at the nape of his neck.  


_Fuck._ He'd remembered _every single one_ of Alfred's erogenous zones and he _knew_ what he was doing - with his hands and his lips and his whole body, weight bearing down on Alfred in just the right ways.The boy couldn’t have been that drunk if he remembered all that, right? _"Fuck,"_ Alfred breathed as Arthur's hands _did things_ to his stomach and his hair, teeth scraping over an earlobe.  


The statement must've come out a lot louder and needier than Alfred had intended, because Arthur pulled away. "Too much?" he asked, voice gravelly.  


Alfred blinked. Arthur's gravelly voice was _hot._ And he was asking to make sure Alfred was okay? Why had he said he was shit-faced, but he still had the decency to ask for consent and treat Alfred so well? This was the opposite of how Honda had treated him downstairs. God, why was Arthur so … _perfect?_  


"You're perfect," is all Alfred said, barely a whisper. Arthur colored at Alfred's words, then slumped against Alfred's chest, sighing. "As much as I want to do this all night - hell, for all eternity …" he trailed off. "I think I drank too much."  


Ah, well. Alfred wasn't sure what he'd do about the raging boner he currently sported, but he supposed he'd survive. "Okay," he sighed. He respected Arthur's decision, really. He even wondered if Arthur would remember any of this tomorrow. He had to, right?  


Alfred rolled them over gently, then helped Arthur to stand. "Let's get you to bed, then," he said. "I'll grab you some water for the hangover."  


He got up to leave, but was stopped by Arthur's hand on his wrist. Alfred turned back to find Arthur, eyes begging, the shyest look on his face. "Or you could … stay?"  


Alfred hesitated. "But, you need water for … so you don't …" he trailed off as Arthur's fingers made soft little circles on his wrist. "Tomorrow …"  


Arthur smiled shyly, still managing to look adorable on the verge of passing out. "I've gotten _wayyyy_ more pissed than this and survived. I'll be - hic - fine," he said, tone reassuring. He tugged on Alfred's arm. "Stay."  


Alfred inwardly groaned at Arthur's stubbornness - but who was he to deny the boy what he wanted? He shucked off his jacket and shoes and climbed in bed with Arthur. What was the harm in staying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So that got a lil down and dirty - perhaps a bit more than i originally planned, but oh well! I love writing dialogue for these two. Hopefully I didn't go overboard. Also! Consent is everything! Arthur is a gentleman!  
> Also also, I really find it problematic that aph japan's name is literally Honda Kiku. Like. Um? Other than being a car brand, as a surname it literally means "original rice paddy." Tf?? I just am not into that. So, I made him extra hot in this fic because he deserves more. Buuuut he doesn't get to be with Alfred. Rip Kiku.  
> Also also also, I love a good harmless canada/america ship - plus nyotalia is fun - so i hope y'all liked martha and maddy. i believe in always letting the lesbians get together, because they already have it hard enough in real life - why make them suffer in the fictional world, too? Now, my gays on the other hand - yeah. They're really the kings of tension and barely getting together. Also, spoiler: there's definitely some harm in staying the night. Lol


	15. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred and Arthur wake up together after the Vargas' house party, Alfred has to tell Arthur about the curse, and Arthur makes a big fat mistake.

Alfred woke up slowly, eyes drowsy with sleep. He blinked sleepily, fumbling for his glasses - only for his hands to find … a face?  


He sat up in alarm, confused - until everything from last night came flooding back. The party, Honda pushing him back in that armchair, smelling of beer - then looking for Arthur, later finding Martha and Maddy. Then Arthur kissing him, Arthur biting his lip and licking his ear and - oof. Alfred looked down. He was hard again just thinking about it.  


He shifted away from Arthur, who clung to him tightly. They were sleeping in Tony Vargas’ parents room, in their massive bed, sunlight filtering in through the gilded windows. His movement stirred Arthur, who groaned in his sleep, pulling Alfred toward him, squeezing him like a pillow. Alfred, despite himself, grinned. Who would’ve thought he’d wake up with Arthur at his side? Arthur, sleepily nosing against his shirt, Arthur, white-blond hair a mess, bushy eyebrows furrowed? Alfred couldn’t believe his luck.  


Alfred took a moment to admire the sleeping boy - his brown lashes fanned out across his cheeks, perfect, pale skin covered in lines from the sheets. Alfred wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring when Arthur’s eyes shot open, blinking rapidly. At first there were elements of panic in his gaze, maybe a dash of confusion - but then he sighed, relaxing against the other boy.  


“G'morning," he said against Alfred’s shoulder, voice quiet and deep from sleep.  


Alfred smiled. “Mornin'.” He snuggled a little closer to Arthur, willing his morning wood to go away. “How are you feeling?”  


Arthur blushed. “I’m fine. You?”  


“Ah, well. I didn’t drink, so I’m good.”  


Confusion flashed across Arthur’s features. He still didn’t look up at Alfred. “You … didn’t drink?”  


“Yeah. I never have. I just go to these parties and act drunk so I blend in.”  


Arthur processed this information for a long time. Finally, he said, “So … you remember … _everything_ from last night?”  


Alfred felt himself color, flush traveling down his neck, down even further, to … other parts of him. “Um, yeah. I remember everything.”  


Arthur’s eyes widened. He refused to meet Alfred’s gaze. “Oh, that’s … wonderful.”  


Alfred paused, not sure if he wanted to ask. “Do … you? Remember?”  


Arthur blushed impossibly red. “I, erm … may or may not have been … pretending. Also.”  


Alfred blanched. “You - _what?”_  


“I drank a little, last night, sure! But I sure as hell didn’t trust that punch, and then I saw you kissing that other guy, so I ran away! How was I supposed to know you were going to come looking for me? And that you’d actually find me?” He hid his face in his hands. “So when you came in I decided to act more pissed than I was.”  


“Oh my god,” Alfred said. “So we were both … pretending to be drunk?”  


Arthur laughed into his hands. “I was at least tipsy!”  


Alfred laughed. God, they were chaotic! He gently pried Arthur’s hands away from his face. “It’s okay. I was feeling terrible for taking advantage of you while you were drunk.”  


Arthur huffed. “You can take advantage of me anytime,” he mumbled.  


“What?”  


His eyes widened comically, and he decided to change his previous statement. “I said that I feel terrible that Honda tried to take advantage of you.” Arthur sighed. “If I would’ve known he was trying to molest you, I would’ve stopped him earlier.”  


Alfred _tsked._ “Hey, I’m just glad you _did_ stop him. It all worked out okay in the end, didn’t it? Don’t feel bad.”  


Arthur finally turned to look up at Alfred. Then he gasped. _“Whoa.”_  


Alfred turned toward the other boy. “What?” he asked, bewildered. Then his stomach dropped.  


The flowers.  


He immediately brought his hands to his face - as if he could feel them, how silly - and his panicked expression must’ve betrayed him.  


“Those aren’t tattoos, are they,” Arthur asked, but it was less of a question and more of a statement. He reached out a tentative hand, stroking Alfred’s cheek. “Whoa,” he said again, as Alfred’s eyes rolled back in his head with pleasure. “They _move?”_  


Alfred took in a shaky breath. “I …” he trailed off, uncertain. “What kind of flowers are they?” he asked finally.  


Arthur blushed, as if he was the one covered in moving flowers. He lowered his hand, though he looked like he wanted to touch the flowers more, illicit more of a reaction from Alfred. "They’re, erm … well. They’re roses. Red roses.”  


Alfred’s eyes widened. If the flowers were a reflection of what Arthur was thinking when he touched him, then that meant …  


“Don’t roses symbolize … love?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.  


Arthur looked like he wanted to say something, but instead swallowed roughly.   


Alfred took Arthur's silence as an affirmation. He closed his eyes briefly. Arthur _loved_ him. He didn’t even have to say it; the flowers said it all. And honestly? Alfred loved him back. Hopefully, Arthur wouldn’t freak out when Alfred told him the truth about the curse.  


“Listen, Arthur - there’s something I need to tell you.” He took a deep breath, and began to recite: _“Love is blind, the world: unkind; flowers bloom in May. This family’s gloom, a child of whom will suffer night and day. The curse will hold until they’re cold and rotting in the grave. …”_ but then he stopped as he noticed that Arthur wasn’t surprised, or concerned, or freaked out. He was _reciting the poem with him._  


_“Sickness consume, till flowers bloom, when true love finds its way; be careful, though, you mustn’t go, together they must stay.”_  


Alfred balked. “Wait - how did you know that? And what was the last part?”  


”How do _you_ know it?” Arthur asked, incredulous. Then he smiled. "My mother used to recite that poem to me before I went to sleep."  


_"What?"_  


"Before I slept, she would say it to me, very softly. She told me it was our little secret."  


Well, that was a bit of a morbid lullaby.  


Alfred tried to make sense of this information. "So, you … know what it means?"  


Arthur considered, still staring intently at the roses decorating Alfred's face. "I guess I've really never thought about it. What does it mean?"  


"It's a curse, Arthur." Alfred paused. "And I have it."  


Arthur seemed more intrigued than surprised. Alfred looked at him suspiciously. "Why aren't you ... surprised?"  


Arthur looked suddenly mortified. "Well I ... I may or may not have overheard some of your conversations. In the library? With Martha? I heard you talking about a curse, and I saw that book, and well ... I was curious. So I perhaps eavesdropped. A little."  


Alfred gasped. "Wait a second. Is that how you knew I called you the British Bitch? And why you knew I'm allergic to cats, and flowers?"  


"Um. Maybe?"  


"Gee," Alfred said. He honestly wasn't mad - how could he be, when he spent a good two months staring at Arthur's ass? "So you know about the curse, then? And the flowers?"  


"Well, not really. I get it, I understand the poem my mother told me, but I'm not so sure about the flowers bit."  


"Yeah," Alfred breathed. He tried his best not to blush as he mumbled, "The flowers bloom on my skin when my soulmate touches me."  


"When your _what_ touches you?" Arthur asked, lifting his head.  


"My … ahem. Soulmate."  


"Oh."  


Arthur didn't seem to get it. He'd understood the poem, and wasn't fazed by the fact that Alfred was cursed - he got that flowers bloomed on his skin when his "true love" touched him, but for some reason, he wasn't getting the most important part: that _he_ was Alfred's soulmate.  


"Arthur," Alfred said, barely able to look at him. "The flowers show up when _you_ touch me."  


"When I …" Arthur touched his own lips briefly. Then it hit him, and his eyes widened. "Oh!" He paused. "That must be why your lips are covered in -"  


He was interrupted by a knock on the door. They both froze - was it a classmate? Or worse, the Vargas family, back from vacation? Or the worst possible scenario - was it the police, finding stragglers from the party?  


Alfred and Arthur exchanged fearful glances. Another knock - this time, more insistent, came from the door. Alfred sighed, shuffling over to open the bedroom door. He peeked through the crack and was surprised and relieved to find Tony Vargas on the other side, auburn hair a mess, sleepless eyes rimmed with red. "Dang, man," Alfred said. "You good?"  


Tony winced. "Hungover," he said. "Punch was a little too strong."  


Alfred nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Definitely."  


"Anyway, hope you had a good time in my parents bedroom," Tony said, cracking a wry smile. "Who you got in there, anyway?" He leaned in, trying to look past Alfred, peering through the crack. "You and Martha finally -"  


Alfred cut him off, closing the door further. "Nothing. Nobody. I uh. Slept alone. By myself."  


Tony laughed, then closed his eyes at the head rush. "Alright, whatever. Tell you what, if you see that Kirkland kid, y'know, the one from France or whatever? Lemme know. Exchange people are looking for him, something about finding weed in his room. Can you believe? Fuckin' foreigners." He chuckled again, then left. "Oh, and clean up in there, 'kay? I don't wanna find nothin' nasty."  


Alfred swung the door closed, spinning toward Arthur. "Did you … hear that?"  


_”France?”_ Arthur asked indignantly, voice tinged with anger.  


”No, not _that_ part,” Alfred said, giving Arthur a weird look. “Why would that be the important part?”  


”I am not from _France,”_ Arthur said, huffing and crossing his arms.  


”Arthur, what the fuck? That’s not the important part! Do you not get it? They found your weed! You’re going to get sent back!”  


Arthur nodded numbly. "Yes. They'll send me back."  


Alfred rushed to the bed. “But they can't just … send you back to … all the way across the ocean?” He was fumbling for words, anxiety apparent on his flowered face. “Isn't there some way to…?"  


Arthur shook his head. "Well, if they found my stash, there's no hope.”  


Alfred began to grow agitated. "They can't just take you away, you have to graduate! You have to finish here!" He wrung his hands, pacing. "You have to - I _need_ you to -"  


Arthur stood slowly, as if in a daze. He grabbed Alfred's hands, stilling their fretful movement. "It'll all be okay," he said, casual.  


“Don’t you _care?”_ Alfred asked, voice tinged with desperation.  


“Of course I ca -" Arthur tried to say, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the ground bitterly, rubbing at his neck. He tried again: "Alfred, I lo -" but again, the words didn't make it past his lips. Arthur looked angrily up at the ceiling, cursing - then his eyes widened as if he just remembered something. He looked at Alfred with a steady gaze, face indiscernible. Then he turned to leave.  


"Wait, where are you go-" Alfred protested, but Arthur quickly grabbed the lapels of Alfred's letterman's jacket and pulled him into a searing kiss. Alfred sagged into the other boy as the oversensitive roses on his lips sparked and cracked with energy, moaning quietly into his mouth. Arthur pulled him in tightly, kissing him fiercely. Then it was over, almost as fast as it had begun. "It will all be okay," Arthur repeated, more emphatic this time.  


Then he turned and left without looking back.  


___

KMartha: Alfred  
KMartha: Alfred wake up  
KMartha: Alfred idk if ur mad or embarrassed about walking in on me and maddy last night but u haev to talk to me!!!  
KMartha: Alfred this is super important!!  
KMartha: They're looking for Arthur! His host family found weed in his room and now the exchange program board wants to send him back  
KMartha: To England!!  
KMartha: You have to find Arthur before they do!  
KMartha: Alfred????  
KMartha: ALFRED?!?!?  
_Chicken Alfredo is now online._  
ChickenAlfredo: hes gone  
KMartha: ...  
KMartha: Wdym?  
KMartha: Alfred? What do u mean gone?  
ChickenAlfredo: he left  
KMartha: What?  
ChickenAlfredo: hes turning himself in and going back to gbr  
KMartha: What? Why?  
KMartha: Did something happen between you two?  
KMartha: Why isn't he fighting to stay?  
ChickenAlfredo: idk  
KMartha: What are you going to do about it????  
ChickenAlfredo: nothinf prolly  
ChickenAlfredo: *nothinh  
ChickenAlfredo: fuck  
KMartha: So, you found him? But now he just left?  
ChickenAlfredo: yea i found him at the party after i walked in on u and williams  
ChickenAlfredo: congrats btw  
KMartha: Gee thanks  
KMartha: Can't believe my plan actually worked!! ;-)  
KMartha: That's not important tho  
KMartha: We're talking about ur literal soulmate leaving you  
ChickenAlfredo: yeah we made out a lot last night and fell asleep together  
KMartha: OMG CUTEEEEE!!!  
ChickenAlfredo: yeah and he knew the poem  
ChickenAlfredo: the one about the curse  
KMartha: WHAT????  
ChickenAlfredo: apparently there's a last stanza we didn't no abt  
ChickenAlfredo: *kno  
ChickenAlfredo: i cant fudkcinn tyep  
ChickenAlfredo: anyway then tony woke us up and was like 'fuckin dumbass exchange kid's getting sent back'  
ChickenAlfredo: and arthur just knda gave up  
ChickenAlfredo: and left  
ChickenAlfredo: witout saying godbye or anything  
KMartha: …  
KMartha: Where r you?  
ChickenAlfredo: leavig vargas place  
KMartha: I'll come pick u up  
ChickenAlfredo: k whateve  
ChickenAlfredo: i didnt even get his fukcing number  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! They finally get together, only to be torn apart ... lol ... sorry, I had to. The author giveth and the author shall also taketh away!  
> Anyway, isn't it hilarious that Arthur does the classic _"no goodbyes, it's just better this way"_ thing like he's the star of a YA dystopian novel? Yeah. Hilarious.  
> Next chapter will be chock full of answers (finally) to all the mysteries this fic contains. It should be the last chapter (but don't quote me on that ... i like to use too many words)


	16. Franglish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kiku apologizes, a visitor arrives, some things are explained, and Alfred is on the precipice of discovering the mystery at the heart of the curse.

The air was clear, the sun was shining - it was a beautiful, crisp spring day. May was in full swing, and the trees and flowers of Farmington began to wake up from slumber, buds bright green. The excitement for graduation was palpable among the senior class, who couldn’t sit still or be bothered to complete their homework. Freedom was just on the horizon, and everyone smiled a little brighter, laughed a little more easily.  


Well. Everyone except Alfred F. Jones.  


One week had passed since the Vargas’ house party, and still he walked around as if hungover. He always had his hood up during class, and rarely came to track practice (one of the many sports he was supposed to be excited for, but wasn’t). People gave him a wide girth in the hallways. Those who used to greet him excitedly now stayed away after being snapped at one too many times; his friends and teammates avoided him. He couldn’t care less about graduation, and he didn’t welcome the arrival of spring.  


All he wanted was for Arthur to come back.  


The school had been abuzz with the news that past weekend - stories of how the British foreign exchange student had been buying and selling drugs, crazy shit, hard stuff, rumors that he’d been running an underground drug ring for the entire semester. Alfred hadn’t participated in the gossip, sitting in class in a sullen stupor. He couldn’t believe Arthur would just _leave_ him like that. He’d told the boy about the curse - he’d told him they were _soulmates_ \- and Arthur had left without a goodbye. If Arthur loved him, as the roses that still decorated Alfred’s skin said, then why did he leave? Why didn’t he beg the board to stay?  


Alfred had only one friend and confidant: Martha, who dutifully covered up the roses with makeup every morning. They had to resort to lipstick to cover the roses on Alfred’s lips, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything, really.  


And he hadn’t even gotten Arthur’s _number._  


Today was a Friday, which meant everyone was particularly antsy. Alfred was pissed as hell, though, because the flowers Arthur had left on his skin hadn't gone away. He'd been smearing on makeup for the past week, hoping they'd fade, but to no avail. His face was almost comically covered in roses: bouquets on his temples and cheekbones, huge blooms on his cheeks and chin, tiny, bright red roses on his lips, vines and thorns trailing from blossom to blossom. The rest of his body wasn't faring well, either: all of the past blooms that had decorated his skin over the last few months kept reappearing. God, he just wanted them _gone!_ The flowers were a terrible, constant reminder of Arthur's absence. Every time something brushed a bloom, or a stray breeze hit a violet, heat pooled in Alfred's core; it was like the ghost of Arthur's touch. But then the feeling would fade, and Alfred would realize all over again how much he missed the other boy.  


The bell finally rang, and Alfred couldn't get up fast enough. He scrambled to put away his things and was out of the building in a flash, dashing to his truck in the springtime heat. He clambered into the cab and was about to streak away when he heard an insistent tapping on the truck window.  


It was Kiku, face set in determination. Alfred groaned. Great, the kid was back to try and seduce him _again._ He rolled down the window and began to tell Kiku to buzz off, but Kiku interrupted.  


"I'm sorry," he said simply.  


Alfred paused. _Interesting._  


Kiku continued: "I'm sorry about the party last Friday. I was so drunk, I barely even remember what I did, but I know it was a violation of your trust and your personal space and god knows how many other things. So. I'm sorry."  


Alfred nodded. A week ago, he would've empathized with the boy, perhaps accepted the apology, or even forgiven him. Now, though, he was bitter and jaded, and he barely restrained himself from laughing in Kiku's face. Instead he said, "Kay, is that it?"  


Kiku seemed somewhat startled at the blunt response. "Um … yes?"  


Alfred began to roll up the window. "Aight, I'm headin' out then."  


Kiku grabbed the window with a slender hand. "No! Wait - I … there's something else."  


"Hurry up, then."  


"I know about the soulmate thing, the old _Amore Florum_ curse, and I know that the exchange student, that Kirkland guy? I know he's … the one for you. And I want to say I'm happy for you. I’ve liked you since … since, well, forever. Space camp? When we were little? I think that was when I first fell in love with you. But, I understand if I’m just … not the one. So. I’m happy for you."  


Alfred frowned. That was a confession to end all confessions. He sighed - he sort of felt bad for the guy. “Listen, Kiku, I’m sorry. I’ve never liked you that way, and I dont’ think I ever will. And … I know you’re saying you’re happy for me, or whatever, but maybe we could just cut the bullshit and admit we’re both miserable?”  


Kiku nodded. “I s’pose.”  


Alfred couldn’t stop the words from pouring out: “Arthur literally just pissed off to England like he didn't even fucking _care.”_ His voice cracked awkwardly, and he shrugged. “He couldn't even say he liked me. It was like - he wasn't able to, or something. So I guess we’re both going to have to get over a heartbreak.”  


Kiku swallowed. "I know you're upset, I just … wanted to say that I can help. I want to help. My dad owns an airstrip not too far from here, and we have our family plane, y'know, so if you want, we can get Arthur to fly -"  


Alfred cut him off quickly. “Thanks, Kiku, but no thanks. He left without saying he cared, without saying goodbye. He’s not coming back.” He rolled up his window, and Kiku walked away with a sigh. Alfred really didn't have anything else to say to Kiku. What was the guy doing? Offering his rich dad's plane, as if that would help? Arthur clearly didn't care - he couldn't even spit out the words, back in the Vargas' bedroom that fateful morning - and he wasn't coming back. Even if they got fucking Air Force One, Arthur wouldn't get on. The situation was _hopeless._  


Alfred fumed all the way home from school - normally he walked, but walking to and from school in heavy sweatpants and a sweatshirt in this heat kind of sucked. So now he drove, and it took around four minutes to get home.  


He was still angry when he went inside his house - angry with Kiku and his long-time crush and his stupid offer, angry at Arthur for leaving, angry at the world for constantly shitting on him. He was so angry, in fact, he almost didn't notice the visitor in his living room.  


"Hey, Alfie!" James called. "Look who's here!"  


Alfred backtracked, halting in his quest to get to his room as fast as possible. Could it be? He tried to tamp down his excitement. He entered the living room, only to find …  


"Uncle _Francis?"_  


Perched on a leather armchair sat none other than Francis Bonnefoy-Jones, smiling tiredly. His shoulder-length hair was a stunning blond, but his stubble was dark, just like James'. Alfred could tell he was getting on in years, his posture just a bit stooped, his face etched with crow's feet and smile lines. Francis noticed Alfred, and his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled up at him.  


"Alfred, _mon amor,_ how are you?" His uncle still had a pronounced French accent from living overseas for so many years. As a kid, Alfred had thought it was funny - now it just made his heart hurt. France was in Europe. What else was in Europe? His soulmate. Who apparently didn’t care about him enough to even say goodbye.  


Alfred hadn't seen his great uncle in _years._ He remembered a spritely young gentleman, full of bubbling energy and laughter that bordered on being too loud. This Francis, however, was tired and weary, body cloaked in a large dark purple coat. It seemed that both he and Alfred weren't dressed for the weather.  


"I'm …" Alfred began, but he wasn't sure how to answer. He remembered what his mother had said, months ago - _"I know it’s true, your uncle had it, too”_ \- and he decided to tell the truth. "I'm actually quite terrible."  


"Oh," Francis said, and his blue gaze briefly flashed from James to Amelia and back to Alfred. "Because …?"  


"Well." Alfred decided to reveal it all - even though he hadn't told his parents about Arthur, or about Arthur's sudden departure. He stripped off his sweatshirt, laying bare his arms. Francis and his parents gasped as they took in the assembled violets, daisies, bouvardias, and more. His parents were shocked and alarmed, their confusion written across their faces, but Franics only sat forward slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.  


"Mauve carnations _and_ coriander?" he asked, with a hint of mirth in his voice. He gave Alfred a knowing smirk, and Alfred blushed. How did Francis know about the meaning of those flowers?  


"Is this why you've been moping around the house for a week?" Amelia asked, studying her son's arms. James rushed to defend his son, saying, "Now, let's not make him uncomfortable, I'm sure he's going through a lot…"  


Francis leaned forward even more, his joints creaking. Then he said quietly, "You know, you can move those around."  


Three Jones' heads whipped around to him, conversation forgotten.  


"What?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his hopes down.  


"I said, you can move those around if you want.” He smirked. “I can even make mine disappear."  


Alfred's mouth fell open as Francis extended an aging hand, the outlines of a flower growing darker on his palm. He watched in awe as a beautiful dark pink flower developed on Francis' skin, the petals like geometric triangles. Then he closed his eyes, and the flower drifted up his forearm slowly, disappearing under his coat. Alfred's parents were silent, gobsmacked, but Alfred began to laugh. “I _knew_ you had it!” he exclaimed. “Ma just mentioned something offhand, once, but I saw the old journal and I just _knew_ it was your handwriting…”  


Francis smiled back, reciprocating Alfred’s excitement. “How long have you known?”  


Alfred cast a look in his parents’ direction, huffing. “Well, these lovely people decided to keep the curse a secret from me for nearly eighteen years,” he said. James cleared his throat awkwardly. Amelia smiled sadly. “Alfie, we know we messed up. We will apologize from now until forever, but I know that still won’t make it right.”  


”Listen, can you leave us alone?” Alfred asked. He wanted to find out everything he could from his great uncle, and he didn’t want his parents to constantly bother him. “Alright, kid,” James said, and he and Amelia left the room.  


“So, when did you … meet _the one?_ Or whatever?” Alfred asked, curious. He settled down on the sofa, all attention focused on the Frenchman.  


“Vietnam, actually, if you can believe that,” Francis said with a tired smile.  


“Oh. I’m, uh … sorry?” Alfred wasn’t sure what to say. What was there to say about the Vietnam War? Everybody’s in a shit field?  


“Don’t be sorry!” Francis said quickly. He shifted in his seat, preparing to tell his story. “I was just twenty, just _un petit garçon,_ if you know what I mean. I met Louis at basic training…” he sighed, a nostalgic smile on his face. “He was this little French man, he’d only been living in America for a couple of years. Then the draft came around, of course … it was such a strange twist of fate that we were in the same platoon. That’s when I started getting sick, which I’m sure you’ve experienced as well - I remember having these terrible nosebleeds during monsoon season. Most of the time, my fellow soldiers couldn’t tell what was rain and what was blood!” He chuckled. “Sorry. That’s probably a bit morbid.”  


”Weren’t you … scared? When I first started getting sick, everyone told me that every Jones who got the curse died. That they wilted like a flower.”  


Francis shrugged. “Of course I was frightened. Who wouldn’t be? But the thing about the curse is … that most of the Jones’ who died never _found_ their soulmate. That’s why they wilt, why they get sick. My grandmother, your great-great-grandmother? I only knew her for a tiny bit, because she never met her true pair. She was married to the wrong man, and when their marriage got testy, she got sick and passed. You and I, however,” he grinned, leaning forward, “we are the lucky ones. We found our mates!”  


Alfred smiled back at his uncle. He supposed he really was lucky - even if Arthur didn’t love him back, at least he couldn’t die now. Probably.  


“Anyway,” Francis continued his story, “my sickness all got sorted out when my love first touched me, although, hiding the flowers was a bit of a problem. We didn’t last long in the war, though, because Louis took a bullet to the neck, and I of course ended up with shrapnel in my shoulder… because we were always standing next to each other, obviously…”  


Alfred balked. Was Louis _dead?_ Why was Francis so casual about this?  


Sensing Alfred’s confusion, Francis laughed. “No, he didn’t die from that. Look!” He pulled out his phone - of course he had the latest, nicest model - and showed his great-nephew a photo. A stylishly dressed man - Louis, it seemed - sat on a wrought-iron bench, mid-laugh, as if someone had just said something hilarious. His skin was dark like black coffee, with a head full of shiny black curls. His golden eyes shone with laughter and love, accentuated by the crow’s feet that crinkled around his eyelids. Alfred looked closely - across Louis’ neck, there was a faint scar, pink against his brown skin. Despite the scar and the age, Alfred could tell that Louis had once been drop-dead gorgeous, and had aged like fine wine. “He’s beautiful,” Alfred breathed, without fully meaning to. Francis beamed at Alfred’s reaction. “He is, isn’t he?” His voice was all fondness and love, with just a hint of something - like sadness. He shook his blond head as if to clear it.“Go ahead, scroll!” he told his great-nephew. Alfred did so, admiring pictures of Louis and Francis together - at the French Open, the red clay courts baking in the hot sun, Francis looking adorably grumpy as Rafael Nadal held up a trophy in the background; at the seaside, clad in swimsuits and sunhats; at a fashion show, dressed to the nines in fancy suits; at a restaurant, grinning cheesily over expensive wine. There were a lot of pictures of Louis alone, too - pictures taken when he wasn’t looking, or wasn’t prepared. His grin was infectious, his movements always graceful - even in one blurry photo where he lunged toward the camera, whipped cream smeared on his face.  


“So, that’s Louis,” Francis sighed. He put his phone away in his pocket, then continued with his story. “The bullet just grazed Louis’ throat, but we were sent home immediately. What was it, ‘72? Oh, I can’t remember. After we healed up, we were discharged, and I of course followed _mon chérie_ back to France. We’ve been living there ever since, and, well, as you saw in the pictures, we were pretty happy.”  


He seemed to be holding something back, something important. Alfred noted the careful usage of _were_ instead of _are._ “So … where is Louis?”  


“Ah,” Francis said, deflating. “That’s the problem.”  


Francis began to take off his coat, revealing his arms and throat, which were covered in flowers - dead flowers. Alfred stood to inspect the blooms, worry etched over his features.  


“What … happened?” Alfred asked carefully. He reached out to touch a rose on Francis’ neck, its bud wilted, leaves shriveled. Then he thought better of it, retracting his hand.  


“Louis passed away,” he said, saddening. 

The two of them sat in silence for a long while. Finally, Alfred spoke up. “Is that why you’re back? In America?”  


Francis nodded. “I didn’t know what to do with myself after he passed. I figured I could come back here, to Farmington, where it all started. Maybe I could get an explanation for all this.” He trailed off, pointing to the wilting flowers on his skin.  


Alfred thought hard, and then it hit him - the final stanza of the poem. If Alfred hadn’t known it, Francis probably didn’t know it, either. _“Sickness consume, till flowers bloom, when true love finds its way; be careful, though, you mustn’t go, together they must stay.”_

His great uncle stared at him in confusion. “What was that last part?”  


“It’s my … well, my soulmate knew it. Before he left, we talked about the curse - for some reason, he knew the poem, and he knew this last stanza. He said his mother used to recite the poem to him as a lullaby.”  


Francis considered this for a while. “Together they must stay … is that saying that if your soulmate leaves you, doesn’t want to be with you … there are consequences? Like this?” He looked down at the half-dead garden on his skin.  


“That makes sense, right? But then … does that mean you’re going to die from this?”  


Francis sighed. “I really don’t know, _mon amor._ I’ve been through so much, been mostly dead so many times over … I doubt that this will kill me. But I can’t seem to get rid of these flowers, so it seems … it seems the curse wants to make sure I never forget.”  


“I guess that’s happening with me, too,” Alfred said, despondent.  


“What happened with you two?” Francis asked gently. “He’s not dead, I hope?”  


Alfred laughed weakly. “No, he’s not dead, he just … left. Without a goodbye. I told him about the curse, and then he ... he seemed like he wanted to confess to me, to tell me he loved me ... but then he just had to go. I don’t know where he lives, I don’t have his number or any way to contact him … he may as well be dead. I’m never going to see him again, and I miss him.” The realization knocked the breath out of Alfred. He hadn't let himself feel anything other than anger and resentment, but the hurt that had settled like a dead weight in Alfred's chest was from the _missing._ He missed Arthur's rare smiles, his unexpected laughter - hell, he even missed Arthur's pout, his angry glares and sneers. "I miss him, but he made it pretty apparent than he won't be missing me."  


Francis gave him a sad half smile. "I suppose we're in the same boat, then. Star-crossed lovers, eh?"  


Alfred smiled back. "Guess so."  


"Tell you what," Francis said, excitement sparkling in his blue eyes. "Why don't I teach you a thing or two about controlling those flowers?"  


___

Francis ended up staying in Farmington long after his first visit - he really had nowhere else to go. Residents were happy to have something new to talk about, and the eccentric Frenchman spun the gossip wheel to the best of his ability. Weeks passed, and while Francis wasn't busy chatting with the locals at the coffee shop or gossipping with the ladies at bingo night, he was home with Alfred.  


As time passed, the stinging hurt of Arthur's absence had reduced to a dull ache. Alfred kept himself busy with sports and school, and every night, he sat with his great uncle and talked about the curse. They both reminisced, taking turns sharing stories about their lost lovers. They discussed different stanzas of the curse and pondered how it had come about. They belly laughed and almost cried, talking for hours …. and every night they watched as the flowers on their skin wilted. Francis' flowers were brown and crisp, rotten petals falling off of dying blooms. Alfred's had only just begun to wilt, bright colors fading, petals drooping slightly.  


It was a night like any other, Francis and Alfred at the kitchen table, forearms resting side by side. They'd been talking about everything and nothing, but now it was time for a lesson - Francis style. The Frenchman was attempting to teach Alfred how to move his flowers around, although it wasn't going well. Alfred had already mastered making them disappear, but moving them was another matter entirely. Plus, Francis was more than a couple glasses of wine in, a high flush on his cheeks, a blurred look to his eyes. "It's just willpower, Alfie," he said, chuckling as Alfred grimaced in concentration. "You just have to _think_ hard enough." He closed his eyes briefly, and the brownish-red rose on his wrist flounced delicately up his arm and beneath his shirt.  


Alfred rolled his eyes at his great uncle's ostentatious show of skill. "I _am_ thinking hard enough!" he protested angrily, sweat pricking on his brow. The daisy on his forearm, despite his efforts, didn't budge.  


Then Alfred felt it - like someone was trailing their fingertips over his forearm, just a whisper of a touch. He looked at his arm in surprise, and sure enough, the daisy spun slowly up his arm. Everywhere the flower went, heat prickled on Alfred's skin … it was like _Arthur's_ touch, the way he'd touched his hands back in Alfred's bedroom almost a month ago. Alfred looked to his great uncle in alarm - "Is it supposed to …" he said, but trailed off. What did he want to ask? _Is it supposed to turn me on?_  


The daisy took a meandering path up his arm, taking its time as if it _knew_ what it was doing to Alfred. He almost groaned as it swirled around the crease of his elbow, a spot he didn't know was sensitive until now. Did people normally have sensitive arm creases? Was Alfred okay? Oh god, he was sweating now.  


Francis took one look at his sweltering, overwhelmed nephew and burst out laughing. "It always feels like that, _mon cheriê,"_ he said, giggling. "You'll get used to it."  


It _always_ felt like this? Jesus - he could only imagine moving flowers over more _sensitive_ areas of his body. He blushed harder at the thought.  


"Who came up with this shit?" Alfred asked, squeezing his eyes shut as the daisy danced its way up his bicep.  


Francis shrugged, swallowing the rest of his fifth glass of wine. "I don't know, look in the book." The old family journal was on the table with them, the third companion in their nightly talks. Alfred huffed at Francis' flippant answer, but reached for the old tome nonetheless.  


He'd been thinking more and more about the origin of the curse - mostly, he wondered why Arthur had known it. How could a curse that only existed in the Jones family get overseas? Francis was the only exception in the Jones family, living in France for so long … so how could Arthur have known anything about it? And those words scribbled in the margins of the poem - _"ancestors messed up - Mayflower?"_ had Alfred questioning everything.  


"Have you ever thought about how all this started?" Alfred asked, tingling sensation finally subsiding once his daisy nestled in with the other flowers on his collarbone.  


Francis sighed, pouring himself more wine. "Of course," he said. "Those are my notes."  


Alfred stared hard at the red ink, the neat _"Mayflower?"_ in the margins.  


"So, do you think … our family is cursed because we chose to leave England? On the Mayflower?"  


"Hmmm…" his great uncle paused, deliberating. "I don't think that's it. When I was your age, before Vietnam, and before Louis, obviously, I was searching for answers … and that's what I originally thought as well. Mayflower, flowers … it seems to fit the bill." He smacked his lips. "But I believe it's more complicated than that."  


Alfred drummed his fingers on the journal, the pads of each fingertip making a lovely _doop_ noise on the old pages. "I think the curse must affect _two_ families. One American, one English. I think … I think Arthur's family is a part of it, too."  


Francis hummed. "I suppose I never considered that. Is this because your … Arthur knew that last little verse?" He considered his nephew's statement, nodding. "Perhaps there was some sort of split in the families, a disagreement?"  


"Or there were lovers, and one boarded the Mayflower to America without even saying goodbye,” Alfred said bitterly.  


Francis smiled. "You don't think you're projecting there? Just a little?"  


"Shut up," Alfred said, turning back to the book. He couldn't help but feel bitter - Arthur hadn't said goodbye. He hadn't left his number, or his email, or even his address. He had left, just like that. Alfred ran a hand over the many poems in the journal, written by so many different Jones' hands. He wished he could talk to his cursed ancestors, ask them if they knew the true origin. He wondered if they'd been just as frustrated as he felt now.  


"Maybe I should write it? And date it?" he said absentmindedly. "Make my mark."  


Francis immediately hopped on the idea. "Oh yes, absolutely. Let's do it now!"  


Alfred had been mostly joking, but as Francis handed him a pen, he realized he may as well do it now. He began with the title at the top - _Amore Florum Maledictus_ \- in his best handwriting. Then he followed with the rest of the poem, its stanzas burned into his memory. He reached the final verse, but then considered - maybe he should write Arthur's stanza, just because. Why not?  


He added, _"Be careful, though; you mustn't go; together they must stay,"_ and scrawled the date at the bottom. There. His mark on a long line of Joneses, his legacy in a book of a cursed bloodline. Feeling satisfied, he sat back - until he noticed an odd light shining from the book.  


Were the words - glowing?  


Both Francis and Alfred leaned forward to look at the journal, whose pages were emanating a strange, golden glow. As they leaned, though, an overwhelming pull overtook them - and then they were falling into the book.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that I didn’t finish this earlier. I’m pretty sure two people have read this - and to those two people, I send my deepest apologies. I wanted to make sure Honda was left on a good note - I feel like I antagonized him way too much, and that took forever to write. I also really wanted to get Francis’ history right … I really like Louis (named after the 18 French kings lol), and I wasn’t planning on making him dead, but now here we are. Louis is black because I thought it’d be a cool historical parallel - France was quite literally in love with most of West Africa, and colonized the Ivory Coast. Also, Louis’ gunshot wound across the neck represents the guillotine, and the scars of the French Revolution. Kinda dramatic, right? Oh, also, for context, Francis looks grumpy in the picture of them at the French Open because French people have been historically peeved about Rafael Nadal, a Spaniard, winning the French Open for twelve years. So yes, this took forever. And it’s still not done! I feel like the story has majorly derailed from where I started it, but hopefully, I can close it out with the next chapter. I want to fully explain the origin of the curse, and give Alfred and Arthur an ending they deserve. If you're still here - thanks. Also there's time travel in the next chapter ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	17. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the old journal takes Alfred and Francis back in time, and they witness the origins of the curse. Then they put their heads together - and find that breaking the curse may be easier than originally thought ...

Alfred was falling for what felt like forever, his limbs weightless, his vision edged with gold. He tried to move about, catch himself; his hands grasped at nothing - then as soon as it began, it was over. Alfred landed roughly on firmly packed dirt, collapsing in relief. Not even a second later, Francis followed, landing gracefully on his feet. Alfred glared at his great uncle, swiping at the dirt that covered his shoulders.  


Francis, though, paid him no mind. He was too busy staring in awe at their surroundings. Alfred quickly stood, eager to see what Francis saw - when he did, his mouth dropped.  


They had landed in some sort of provincial village, with packed dirt roads, squat buildings stacked haphazardly against each other, and people - _so many people._ Everyone was dirty, faces weary and caked in grime, scurrying from place to place with cloth sacks and baskets. Women wore long skirts and bonnets, and the men had these ridiculous shoes with huge buckles on them. Alfred almost laughed. Where had he seen those shoes before? They just looked so _dumb,_ especially with tall socks and cropped pants.  


Alfred turned to Francis, who was still gaping. “Francis … where are we?”  


Francis seemed at a loss for words - all he could do was point with an aging hand to Alfred’s left, where an enormous ship was docked in the harbor. Alfred’s eyes widened. How had he not noticed the _ocean?_ He stared in wonder at the vessel, its masts looming over the port, yellowish sails flapping in the breeze. He peered closer - it seemed that people were boarding the ship, hurried footsteps and worried faces. Alfred turned to look at the port town again, taking in the dirty, rushing people, the mud, the ocean, the rancid smell of squalor - and then it hit him.  


“Is that the _Mayflower?”_ he asked, incredulous. Francis nodded, turning to Alfred with a look of wonder on his wrinkled face. “It must be -” he began, but was cut off when a passerby ran into him.  


Or, more accurately - the man ran _through_ him. His body passed through Francis’ as if it was made of air, the edges of his form blurring. The pair gaped as the man continued on his path, oblivious to their presence. “How…”  


“We must be in a memory,” Francis breathed. He reached out toward another person as they passed, this time a short, gangly man with an armful of fresh-picked flowers. Francis’ hand went straight through the man’s torso, blurring and pixelating into shimmering gold before reforming as if nothing happened. “A memory?” Alfred asked, running his hands through a fencepost, which dissolved and reformed before his eyes. “A memory of what?”  


Then Alfred felt a tug below his navel. It pulled him toward the man with the flowers, who was angrily stomping inland, away from the Mayflower. Alfred felt sure he had to follow that man. “We need to follow him,” he told his great uncle with surety. “He’s important, somehow.”  


Francis nodded. They trudged after the man, feet sliding in the muck. No wonder people wanted to leave - this was _disgusting!_ Who would want to live like this, in the filth, piled on top of each other? If he’d been here, he would’ve left just like his ancestors did.  


The man turned quickly into a shop in the market square, slamming the door behind him. Alfred and Francis followed closely behind, walking through people and walls like ghosts.  


They entered the man’s shop - some sort of apothecary or flower shop, Alfred wasn’t sure - and watched as the mysterious angry man threw his collection of plants on the counter in a huff. Alfred looked around. The shop was full of bottles and jars of mysterious liquids and powders, with dried herbs and flowers hanging in bunches from the ceiling and the walls. A wooden sign behind the counter read "Kirkland's." That was strange ...Alfred continued to scan. One section of the shop held Alfred’s particular interest - a few shelves labelled “Magical Draughts.” Was this guy a wizard or something? Alfred turned his attention back to the man in question, whose face was obscured by shadow. The man’s body language screamed of unbridled anger, though, and and something else; his shoulders were stooped, his posture rigid. He appeared to be holding in sobs.  


Suddenly, the door to the shop opened, and a man burst in. The florist turned around to identify the intruder - and that’s when Alfred gasped aloud.  


_”Arthur?”_  


Of course, the shop owner didn’t hear him - Francis was the only person who could hear him. But the florist looked exactly the same as his beloved Arthur: sharp chin and cheekbones, pale skin, bright green eyes, and of course, bushy eyebrows. He looked older, sure, and dirtier too. He was wearier than Arthur; he held a deep sadness beneath the surface. He had the ghost of a beard and his hair could’ve been blond, although it was hard to tell. He knew it wasn’t Arthur, but the man _looked_ so much like him … Alfred wanted to reach out and touch him, but he restrained himself. This was just a memory; a mirage.  


The Arthur look-alike took one look at the visitor in his shop before picking up a jar of something and throwing it at him. Alfred ducked on instinct, even though he knew the jar wouldn’t hurt him - the visitor, though, wasn’t as lucky, and the jar hit him in the stomach and crashed to the ground, shattering on impact. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach, so Alfred couldn’t get a good look at his face. But as he spoke, his voice seemed oddly familiar: “Gouty-legged tarse, George, what was that for -”  


The Arthur look-alike - George, it seemed - didn’t give the visitor a chance to finish his sentence. “How _dare_ you?” he said, barely able to contain his rage.  


__

“How dare _I?”_ the man asked, incredulous. He straightened up to his full height - he was quite tall - and revealed his face. As if Alfred hadn’t had enough shock today - the man looked exactly like Alfred!  


__

Both he and Francis nearly fainted at the similarities - Alfred’s strong jawline, his bright blue eyes, his physique, tall and broad-shouldered, and blond hair just like his - although this man’s was slightly red. He seemed older than Alfred, probably the same age as George. The only difference between Alfred and this man was a long reddish beard. Alfred's mind was slow to make the connections, but Francis put the pieces together quickly. "Alfie, mon amor - this is the origin! These must be our ancestors!"  


__

Of course - the old journal had contained a memory, a glimpse into why the old curse had come about. Alfred had so many questions; he felt as if his head would burst. George and his visitor, though, didn't slow their conversation for Alfred - they continued to argue. "You are a copper-nosed imbecile, John,” George sneered, crossing his arms. “Boarding that ship is suicide.”  


__

Alfred’s doppelganger - John, apparently - scoffed in anger. “Staying here is suicide, and you know it!”  


__

George groaned. “Staying _here_ is the only option! Here you are safe, you are protected! The Crown exists to -”  


__

John was not interested in George's opinion on the monarchy. He interrupted angrily: "The Crown is _tyrannical!_ We are not citizens, but slaves! Our only freedom is the freedom to live in squalor. We have no say in anything, we have no right to anything - hell, we cannot even go to church as God intended -”  


__

”And what is there? Hmm?” George had quieted now, anger dissipating. “What is there in the New World for you?”  


__

John unfolded his arms, a look of excitement crossing his features. “Everything,” he breathed. "The New World, George - it is everything. You should come with me."  


__

George yanked off his own hat, scrubbing through his hair with angry fists. "You are not _listening_ to me. You never _listen_ to me! I am not boarding that ship! I have my shop here, my _life_ is here. I am not going to die in the wilderness of an untamed land! I am going to live and work _here,_ under a queen who maintains order!"  


__

"All you care about is _order,"_ John interrupted. "Do you not care for anything else in this life? Everything is always according to your _rules,_ your _secrecy,_ you care not for freedom, for liberty, for human decency -"  


__

George interrupted John’s diatribe loudly. "I care about _you!"_  


__

George seemed to realize what he'd admitted, and looked mortified. He covered his mouth with his hand, but it was too late. Alfred and Francis turned to John, their faces etched in shock. Their shock was nothing, though, compared to the look on John's face.  


__

"You … care for me? You _love_ me?"  


__

George did nothing but nod mutely. He looked so timid, so frightened; he looked nothing like Arthur as he cowered. The Englishman must've been expecting a harsh reply, or even a blow - he braced for impact, but was startled when John replied so quietly Alfred and Francis could barely hear it:  


__

"I have always loved you."  


__

George relaxed slightly once he realized he wasn't about to be beat to death. He hadn't heard what John had said, though, so he began to speak: "I know you think that night a fortnight ago was a dream, or a witch's curse, but it was real, it happened -"  


__

"I know."  


__

"You … know?"  


__

"I know that night was real. I remember _everything._ You were the one who told me it was a hallucination, but I knew - I remember your touch ... the sounds you made."  


__

George blushed deeply. Alfred didn't have to stretch his imagination to understand what George and John must have done that night. He and Francis exchanged a look. Francis just shrugged.  


__

"I told you it was a dream because I did not want to lose you," George said quietly, voice soft.  


__

John cleared his throat. "If you do not wish to lose me, you should come _with_ me."  


__

Alfred turned to Francis. "I told you the curse started with lovers!" he exclaimed. Francis shushed him, focused completely on the scene before him.  


__

"You know I cannot," George said, voice wobbling. "There is nothing for me there."  


__

John's face hardened. "You are a fool, George."  


__

George pondered, hands nervously picking leaves off of a stem. "I cannot go."  


__

"I will be free from tyranny. I will go to make a better life, if not for myself, then for my children, and their children. I will never love another the way I loved you, but if you choose to rot in this crumbling country like your flowers, it seems I cannot stop you."  


__

George frowned, anger and sadness battling on his features like a tumultuous storm. "I shall not rot," he said with conviction, hands strangling the flower they held. "I will _prosper."_  


__

John's face looked strained, his eyes downcast, lips contorted into a grimace. "You will die alone. Even the queen cannot save you from a lonely life."  


__

George's anger bubbled over. He raised his voice, flinging another powder-filled bottle at John. The glass shattered against a wall, powder exploding in the air. "Well, you will never love anyone other than me!" George cried petulantly. Now that sounded more like Arthur. "You can find a wife -" he threw another jar, it's contents staining the floor, "- and children -" another crashed, this time bursting into flame momentarily, "- and all the freedom you want, but in the end, all you will desire is _me_ and my flowers." He threw a fresh bouquet at John, who didn't even bother to dodge. "You hate them now, but mark my words, you will stay awake late into the night, laying next to a wife you do not want, longing for me. You'll wish you had even one rose petal from me."  


__

John huffed. "As you wish, then," he said, and walked out the door without further ado.  


__

As he left, the ground began to shake. Alfred and Francis looked to George, who glanced in fear at the destroyed potions and powders littering his shop. Then there was a sharp bang and everything turned gold, just for a split second. The gold vanished as fast as it came, disappearing without a trace. George's emerald eyes flashed with pain, and he clutched at his heart. He seemed to make a decision, and he grabbed a leather-bound journal before rushing out the door after John.  


__

Alfred went to immediately follow, but Francis stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Alfie, look," he said, pointing to the glass shards and powder littered across the shop floor. "The label."  


__

Alfred stooped to read the broken label from one of the jars: _"Maledictus."_ "Doesn't that mean curse?" Alfred asked, realization dawning on him slowly. Francis nodded in agreement. _"Amore Florum Maledictus,"_ he whispered.  


__

"We need to follow Arthur - I mean, George!" Alfred said. "We can convince him to get on the ship, so the curse doesn't start! _Together they must stay!_ The last line!"  


__

Francis shook his head sadly. "This is just a memory, Alfie. We are powerless."  


__

Alfred shook his head vehemently. "No, _no!"_ He burst out onto the busy street, intent on making things right. He was sure he could speak to George, somehow - he needed to convince him to break the curse, or even better - stop it before it started!  


__

Alfred ran through people and wagons and animals, their forms dissolving into gold as he passed through them. George had to be around here somewhere, he had to be … there!  


__

Alfred rounded a corner, catching up to George. The man paid no attention to Alfred, completely oblivious to his presence. Alfred yelled and waved his arms, making a scene - still, nothing. George scanned the crowd desperately, intent on finding his lover. Alfred watched as George's eyes landed near the docked Mayflower - he'd clearly seen John. George took off into the crowd, easily blending in with such a short stature. Alfred quickly followed, nearly losing the florist in the crowd. He busted through people and things, their forms breaking into fragments of gold in his wake. "George!" he called. "You have to reverse the curse!"  


__

George stayed true to his course. He stopped before a tall man who was loading supplies into crates on the docks. Alfred careened into them, barely stopping himself from falling into the stormy grey ocean waters. They reformed slowly, edges blurry. "John," George said, huffing. John turned around with a frown, arms crossed. _"John,"_ George repeated, more emphatic this time. "I did not mean what I said; I need you to stay. I -"  


__

But then he stopped, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. His eyes bugged slightly as he touched his throat. "What, George?" John said, looking angry but perplexed. "Say it."  


__

But it seemed as if George physically could not say it. He tried again, taking a deep breath. "I lo -" but again, his voice failed him, cracking. It was odd - George’s inability to speak reminded Alfred of Arthur in the Vargas’ bedroom.  


__

"The ship is leaving," John said, studying George with mounting confusion. "If you have something to say, say it now."  


__

George clawed at his throat, unable to speak. Alfred nearly cried - why wasn't George saying anything? Why couldn't he tell John that they needed to stay together? He wanted to yell and scream at the both of them - _you're cursing your entire lineage to death and suffering_ \- but he knew it was hopeless.  


__

"Listen," John said carefully. "I could … stay here. With you. It is not the life of freedom I desire, but it is a life … with you. Just promise me you will love me. Love me truly, without qualms; no secrecy and trickery. Tell me you will be true, and I will stay."  


__

Tears began to leak from George's eyes as he tried to speak. Why wasn't he speaking? What was wrong with him? "I -" he said again, voice garbled. Was he poisoned? George shook his head, a look of terrible longing and sadness in his green eyes.  


__

John clearly didn't understand that George physically couldn't speak. His voice was level, but his eyes betrayed the hurt and heartache he felt. "Fine," he said, and turned to board the Mayflower.  


__

"Wait!" George called desperately, the first word he'd been able to utter in minutes. He shoved his journal into John's chest. John's hands met George's, and Alfred watched in mounting horror as a familiar scene played out in front of him: John's face flushed hard, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head with pleasure. He gasped, and stepped away from George, journal clutched to his heart. Alfred could see the flowers already developing on the man's hands, faint red outlines like scratches. George saw them, too, and a look of horrified realization crossed his features.  


__

"Forgive me," George managed, although it was quiet, despondent. He turned away from John quickly, fleeing back to his shop.  


__

John, still in shock, barely registered George's disappearance. Alfred wanted to scream at his ancestor to _stay, don't board the ship, stay here and fix the curse!_ But it was useless. John turned and boarded the Mayflower without looking back, journal clutched tightly in his hands.  


__

Alfred quickly ran back to Kirkland’s shop, mind reeling. Why hadn’t George been able to speak? What was going on? Why had the journal shown them this memory if it was entirely unhelpful? How were he and Francis going to break the curse -  


__

Alfred bumped into someone solid, nearly falling over from the impact. “Alfie, _slow down!”_ Francis exclaimed, grabbing his nephew by the shoulder. “The memory is falling apart!”  


__

He looked around, and it was true - their surroundings were shifting and glitching, trying to reform but dissolving into pixelated golden dust. “All your running about has disturbed the magic, or something,” his great uncle said, casting a worried glance at the ground beneath his feet. The dirt twitched, momentarily disappearing before reappearing in the wrong color. “The memory is delicate, and the magic displaying it is hundreds of years old. It can’t keep up with your careening around, _mon chêrie!”_  


__

“I- I’m sorry,” Alfred choked out, suddenly emotional. “It’s just that … they could’ve been together!” He wasn’t sure if he was crying or not, but he wiped at his eyes nonetheless. “They could’ve stayed together, and we wouldn’t be cursed! But Arthur’s ancestor just _couldn’t_ spit it out, I mean, he couldn’t speak at _all -”_  


__

Francis interrupted him, eyes flying wide open in realization. “That’s it!” he said, almost hopping in excitement. “You were right - the Kirklands are cursed too! I stayed behind in the shop after you left and read all the labels on the broken bottles and jars - they can’t _speak_ their love, they can’t tell someone they love them, because one of those jars contained some sort of silencing charm -” he gestured wildly, talking a mile a minute, his French accent garbling his words. His arm swung out and burst through the head of a passerby - and that's when everything went wrong.  


__

Alfred and Francis' surroundings crumbled and dissolved into gold dust, the sky violently shifting from one color to the next. People and ships and buildings glitched in and out of existence, and some disappeared only to be replaced by a golden nothingness, like t.v. static. Francis looked around in alarm, surprised that he had caused the memory magic to fall apart. "Alfred!" he called, but it was barely audible over the static that was growing increasingly louder. "Alfie, the labels! On the jars! They're the key to breaking the curse -"  


__

Alfred only heard snippets of what his great uncle was saying, as a turbulent wind picked up and blew away half of the memory around him. He headed into Kirkland's shop, desperate to get out of the wind and away from the static, arm up to shield his eyes from the gold dust that flew about in great clouds. Once inside he stooped to try to grab a few of the labels, some glass shards solid and cutting his hands, others nonexistent, his hands passing through them. The wind howled, the walls twitched and shifted color, and Alfred was barely able to grab labels and jars he thought important before he felt the ground drop out from beneath him. Then he was falling, glass clutched tightly in his hands, reality blurring until he saw nothing but gold.  


__

Then he was sitting at the kitchen counter, his great uncle beside him looking thoroughly frazzled.  


__

"What just … happened?" Alfred asked.  


__

"I'm not entirely sure," Francis answered slowly, dusting gold specks off his sleeves. "Maybe those will help?" He gestured to Alfred's hands.  


__

Alfred looked in shock at what he was holding: scraps of paper and bits of broken glass, clutched so tightly they drew blood. He loosened his grip and dropped the items on the counter - how did he manage to bring them from the memory into the real world?  


__

Francis opened the old journal again, fingers trailing over the first poem written on its pages. The date at the bottom - 1620 - now held such a deeper meaning, and the frantic hand it was written in seemed all too familiar.  


__

"Poor John," Alfred said, barely aware of his bloody hands. "He wrote that poem down so many times, but he never knew the last stanza."  


__

Francis nodded. "The powders and elixirs spilled in that shop must have triggered a magical ailment - I'm sure he heard the poem in his mind, a constant nagging, like an itch he just couldn't scratch."  


__

Alfred shook his head. So much of the Jones' past made sense now, but he still had so many questions - mainly, how could they break the curse? Was it possible?  


__

"The labels," Francis said, as if replying to the questions in Alfred's mind. "The answer to breaking the curse has to be on the labels."  


__

They scrutinized one of the waxy, brownish pieces of ancient paper anxiously. On one label, written in what must have been George Kirkland’s handwriting, were the words _“Elixir of Love: To Create Passion.”_ Alfred raised a quizzical brow at his great uncle - was this a popular product? Who would buy some witch’s brew to woo a lover? Francis just shrugged in reply. They continued to read the label, which had just one more line, written in tiny print: _“Effects last until the object of affection returns genuine love.”_ How strange - a love potion that didn’t go away until whoever took it loved the person back?  


__

Alfred looked at another one of the crumpled labels on the counter. _“Silencing Charm: For Tomfoolery.”_ “What the heck …?” Francis took the label from Alfred, squinting at it. He read the fine print: “For enemies: they shall never say what they truly want to. Effects last until the drinker finds a way to say what they mean without saying it.” He sighed. “Odd.”  


__

Alfred considered for a moment, hands at his temples. Then, understanding dawned on him. “Wait just a minute,” he said, growing more excited. “George couldn’t tell John he loved him!” He looked at Francis, smiling.  


__

Francis gave him a perturbed look. “So?” he asked.  


__

”Don’t you see it?” Alfred said, enthusiasm mounting. “Arthur couldn’t tell me he loved me. He physically couldn’t. George couldn’t tell John - the Kirklands are cursed too! That silencing charm must’ve affected them. They can never say what they truly want to!”  


__

Francis began to nod, sitting up in his chair. “And us Joneses got hit with the _Elixir of Love,_ which creates passion! And in the shop, George was yelling about his flowers - clearly the passion part of the spell manifests as flowers on our skin!”  


__

”Yeah!” Alfred stood up, too excited to sit. He began to pace the length of the kitchen. “So we know how the curse came about, and what sort of spells were involved … but how do we break it? The effects of the love potion thing only wear off when the person affected by it falls _in_ love. True love. Genuine love. So … even though we show our hearts quite literally on our sleeves, with the flowers … that’s just passion. We have to feel genuine love for our soulmate.”  


__

”That makes sense,” Francis said, squinting at the labels in the evening love. “But what about the second part? The Kirkland’s side of the curse?”  


__

”Hmm.” Alfred wracked his brain. “It says the effects of the silencing charm only wear off once the drinker finds a way to say what they mean without words?”  


__

”Correct.”  


__

”So … a Kirkland has to tell their soulmate that they love them, but without words.”  


__

”That doesn’t seem too difficult,” Francis said. “Louis and I had thousands of ways of showing we loved each other. Why didn’t the curse break because of us? It just doesn’t make sense.”  


__

Alfred paced even faster, deep in thought. “Maybe … it has to be a descendant of the Kirklands and the Joneses. Like, the curse was supposed to continue on forever - it kept paring Joneses with different people, people who weren’t descended from Kirklands. But somehow it must’ve messed up by pairing me and Arthur up - we have the ability to break the curse.”  


__

Francis looked up at Alfred in awe. _”Mon chêrie,_ ” he said, eyes glittering. “I think you’ve figured it out.”  


__

Then the kitchen was a mess of noise - Alfred skipped and danced about, hollering at the top of his lungs, while Francis spun about in his chair and laughed with joy.  


__

”We can be free, Alfie!” Francis said, gleeful. “No more wilting flowers, no more dying without your soulmate. Independence, Alfie! Freedom!”  


__

They shouted and danced and laughed for a bit, until Alfred made a sudden realization - he needed Arthur to break the curse. “Wait,” he said, deflating. “Arthur.”  


__

Francis realized what Alfred meant, and repeated him, voice quieting. “Arthur.”  


__

”I don’t know where he is.”  


__

”Right.”  


__

”And I’m not sure if he even loves me. It seemed like he might’ve said it … but if he loved me, why did he leave?”  


__

Francis frowned. “Didn’t you say Arthur knew about the curse, too? His mother recited the poem to him?”  


__

Alfred nodded. “Yeah - what help is that, though?”  


__

”Alfie,” Francis breathed. “Arthur probably realized the Kirkland side of the curse in that moment. He must’ve figured out that he couldn’t say it, and went back home to figure out how to break the curse.”  


__

Alfred’s eyes widened. “He did eavesdrop on me and Martha’s conversations about the curse - he must’ve had a ton of information! Combined with old Kirkland information … I’m sure his family kept records, just like ours did - he must be trying to break the curse, too!”  


__

”But if all it takes to break this curse is you feeling genuine love, and him saying “I love you” without words … shouldn’t you just go find him?” His great uncle asked. “He’s probably come to the same conclusion as we have - he’s a smart lad - so all you two need to do is find each other.”  


__

”Yeah,” Alfred breathed. “All we need to do is find each other.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. So ... historical accuracy? Who is she? I tried to write John and George's dialogue in an appropriate style - contractions didn't exist yet, and a host of other modern language additions had not been invented - however, I think I failed miserably. Also, I love the idea of old memories being preserved in objects, and then being able to run them almost like a computer program - like a specific command can trigger the memory, and then you can walk through and observe it, sort of like a dream, but if you disturb it too much, the code gets messed up and starts sending error messages and the colors get weird and everything gets distorted. Anyway, sorry if that was too long, but I just really like the idea. Anywayzzz, I have been having so much trouble finishing this story. I started it in MARCH. And it's almost SEPTEMBER. So yeah. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the magic and time travel and mystery. Also, I love that Arthur's ancestor is a hella gay witch, brewing up all sorts of concoctions to be petty and make people's lives more difficult. Teehee!!  
> Hopefully I can finish this fic in a timely manner - I hope the next chapter is the last - and Alfred and Arthur can actually get together and break the curse!!!!!!! Thank you for reading if you're still here lol


	18. Aeroplane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred gets on a plane to find Arthur, with no plan whatsoever. What could go wrong?

It couldn't be that hard to find one person in one country - right? Sure, it was one person, but it was only one country. It was going to be fine.  


That's what Alfred kept telling himself, anyway, hands clutching the armrests of his seat. He was sitting in Kiku's father's airplane, rocketing through the clouds at hundreds of miles per hour - but he couldn't seem to relax. He'd always thought his first time on an airplane would be joyous, freeing; instead, his stomach churned with worry. He wasn't worried about the plane ride itself. Honda's father had flown nearly everywhere and back, and his private jet was more than equipped for a comfortable trip. No, he wasn't worried about the flight - he was worried about what came _after_ it.  


He had no information about Arthur. He'd contacted the school, and the board in charge of foreign exchange, but to no avail. It seemed that Arthur's phone number had been disconnected, and he no longer lived at the address he'd given them. It was worrying - was Arthur dead? Had he dropped off the face of the planet? Alfred was so worried, he'd been chewing his nails, and as he stared forlornly out of the plane windows, he ripped off an already mangled fingernail. Blood welled at the quick of his nail, and he sighed.   


"Enough, _mon cherie,"_ Francis chided from the seat across from Alfred. He shook his head. "Worrying yourself sick won't do any good. We're going to England, and we're going to find him."  


Alfred huffed. He was about to reply when Kiku leaned over from the passenger seat of the plane and interjected: "It's going to be great, Alfred! Don't worry!"  


Alfred tried not to roll his eyes at the doe-eyed boy. Of course, Alfred was incredibly grateful to Kiku and his father for taking him and Francis overseas - he was so overwhelmed, in fact, that he'd nearly cried when Kiku had offered for a second time. That didn't change the fact that Kiku still got on Alfred's nerves, always bubbly and optimistic, popping into his conversations uninvited. Alfred had to be careful not to snap at him when he randomly burst into song or grinned at Alfred and asked, "Aren't you excited?"  


Alfred was excited. He'd been excited since that night nearly a month ago when he and Francis had entered the journal memory and discovered the origins of the curse. He'd been thrumming with energy at the prospect of finding Arthur and breaking the curse for good. But it'd been a month of waiting. They'd had to secure visas and passports and a host of other customs-related items, and of course that'd taken weeks. Alfred and Francis were of course more than eager to go - they were practically dying the longer they waited - but Alfred's parents didn't share the sentiment. Sending an eighteen-year-old and an elderly man overseas for months, with no supervision and no plan? They hadn't been thrilled. Amelia and James insisted that Alfred stay until graduation at the end of May, and so, reluctantly, stay they did. As the days passed, Francis and Alfred's flowers rapidly decayed; clusters of blooms hanging limp, violets with brittle stems, roses with crispy brown petals. Alfred's excitement gave way to worry, and now, miles high, he couldn't recapture that excitement. Plus, there was a little voice at the back of his mind, nagging him: what if Arthur really didn't love him back? What if all this was for nothing - they'd fly a million miles, comb through the streets of an entire country, practically lose their minds, all to discover that Arthur had left without a goodbye on purpose?  


Francis suddenly pulled him from his frantic thoughts. "Listen, Alfie. Whatever the outcome of this trip, at least we'll know we tried. It'll go down in the history books as a most valiant effort, no matter what."  


Alfred shrugged. "I suppose."  


"You should rest," his great uncle said reassuringly. "Take a bit of that motion sickness medicine and sleep. Give your restless mind a break."  


Alfred figured there was merit to that statement. Sleeping meant not thinking, at least for a while. He thanked his great uncle and downed a couple pills, and soon enough, he drifted off to sleep.   


____

When Alfred awoke, the plane was still and silent. He blinked blearily and looked out of the window - all he could see past the airstrip was green grass and well-trimmed shrubbery. They'd arrived in England. He exited the cabin on wobbly legs, climbing down the stairs and into the bright sunshine to meet up with the others. This was going to be extraordinarily difficult - harder than anything Alfred had done in high school, harder than waiting an entire month to come here.  


England was _huge._ Alfred was awestruck by the sheer number of cars parked next to the airport - and this was just one city! How on Earth would they find one elusive boy in a country the size of Michigan?  


Alfred and Francis grabbed their luggage and exuberantly thanked Kiku and his father for their generosity - then they walked with purpose toward the airport. A rental car would do well for the task at hand, although Alfred wasn't entirely sure how long they'd need it. A week? Two weeks? Months? They'd packed for months, just in case - but could they even find Arthur within that timeframe? The task seemed more and more impossible the more Alfred looked around.  


They approached the rental car kiosk at the edge of a huge lot of cars, and as Francis began to chat with the clerk, Alfred caught sight of something.  


He rubbed his eyes, thinking he had to be hallucinating - did motion sickness drugs cause serious side effects? But the figure was still there, plain as day. They were turned away from Alfred, speaking with a clerk at the customs desk across the way, so he couldn't be sure. The person had a pouf of white-blond hair, roots golden, a long neck and lanky limbs, tight pants, and Doc Marten boots. And slung around the person's waist - an army green jacket, clearly oversized. Alfred was gobsmacked. He stood with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide - he lost grip on his luggage, which crashed unceremoniously to the ground.  


Francis turned from his conversation with the clerk, confused as to why his great nephew had dropped all his belongings like a buffoon. "What on Earth -?" he began, but was cut off by Alfred pointing in awe across the way at the person.  


Francis peered at the figure, still confused. "What is it?"  


Just then, the person began to raise their voice, clearly angry. They gestured wildly, then picked up their things and stormed off.  


Alfred knew he had to catch whoever it was before he lost sight of them, and quickly took off in a dead sprint. Francis called after him in alarm, face a mixture of shock and worry - but Alfred was already too far away to hear. He ran as fast as he could, shirt billowing around him, sneakers slapping the ground. He wasn't letting the person get away - not without seeing their face.  


He caught up to the person and skidded to a stop, nearly toppling a sunburnt family of four and their towering stacks of luggage. "Sorry," he said quickly, then turned to the person in the army jacket. "Hey!"   


The person turned around in alarm - and Alfred nearly died.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a teeny weeny chapter! I kinda love it - it's nothing like the obese juggernauts I usually post. This story is almost done. I REPEAT - THIS STORY IS ALMOST DONE!!! Nearly 6 months in the making now, and it's almost done cooking. You can take a wild guess as to who Alfred saw in the airport ... lol


	19. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all comes to an end.

_"Alfred?"_  


Arthur's face was a mixture of confusion and delight, his lips forming the syllables of Alfred's name like he hadn't said it in years.  


There was a moment of silence, as the two boys regarded each other. Then they spoke at the same time:  


"How did you get here?"  


"Why are you here?"  


They both chuckled awkwardly. Arthur wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and Alfred's eyes flicked down to trace the movement. The air crackled with tension.  


"You first," Arthur said, and god, Alfred just about cried. He thought he'd never hear that voice ever again.  


"I caught a plane. I begged Kiku to take me on his father's private jet - turns out he was already making a business trip to London, so I hitched a ride."  


Arthur regarded him carefully, but said nothing.  


Alfred cleared his throat. "Why are you at the airport?"  


"I - erm," Arthur said, the tips of his ears blushing pink, "I was going to get on a plane, too."  


"Oh," was all Alfred managed to say back. He stared at Arthur unabashedly, admiring his sharp cheekbones and pointed chin, his pouty lips and bushy brows, the way his hair had grown in honey blonde at the roots. "But you didn't get on the plane?"  


Arthur nodded. "Right."  


The conversation was going nowhere fast. Again they regarded each other in silence, Arthur with an inscrutable look on his face, Alfred barely able to restrain himself from tackling the other boy to the ground and ravishing him right then and there.  


They broke the silence at the same time again, questions overlapping awkwardly: "Why did you come to England?"  


"Where were you going to go?"  


Again they laughed nervously, clearing their throats. Alfred took an unconscious step toward Arthur, scratching the back of his neck.  


"Were you - um," he said carefully, "Were you … going to America?"  


Arthur nodded.  


"Um. Where to? In America," Alfred asked, words haltingly stuttered. Between the flowers on his skin squirming and writhing in anticipation, the constant humming in his ears, and the urge to kiss Arthur's rosy pink lips until he dropped, he could barely form a coherent sentence.  


Arthur deflected with his own question. "Where were you going in England?"  


Alfred looked at the ground, suddenly feeling very foolish. "Um. Well, I wasn't sure, actually. I was going to ask around, and uh, see if anyone knew you? And check the phone books, maybe…" he trailed off uncertainly.  


Then Francis appeared out of nowhere, looking ruffled and out of breath. "Alfred, what on Earth…" then he stopped, noticing Arthur. "Wait, _mon cherie_ … is this -?" he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.  


Alfred groaned at his great uncle, slapping himself in the forehead as he nodded in the affirmative. Arthur blushed deeply, cheeks going crimson - Alfred wanted to kiss him until that blush spread all the way from his cheeks to his neck to his -  


"Alfie - you found him!" Francis stopped Alfred's thoughts from diving straight into the gutter. "You must be Arthur," he said, excitement barely contained as he shook Arthur's hand vigorously. "Arthur, Arthur, oh my, there's so much to discuss - I'm Alfred's great uncle, by the way, Francis Bonnefoy-Jones. My, you are as handsome as Alfred said you were -"  


_"Francis!"_ Alfred yelled, scandalized. He turned to Arthur. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you, although I don't really want to do it in an airport -"  


Arthur cut him off. "I have something to say to you, too."  


Alfred looked at Arthur with new eyes. "Can you … say it?" Alfred wasn't sure if his message got across - did Arthur know how to break the curse yet? What did he know?  


"I -" Arthur said, then cut off abruptly. "No, I can't."  


"Oh," Alfred said, trying not to sound too disappointed. "So do you know about the curse or -"  


"Shh!" Arthur said, looking around furtively. "People here are superstitious. Keep your voice down!"  


Alfred turned to Francis, who shrugged. He then lowered his voice to a whisper: "So do you know about the curse -"  


Arthur cut him off again, smiling despite himself. "Bloody hell, you're so cute - just … yes. Of course I know about it!"  


"So you know what we have to do? To break it?"  


Arthur looked deeply into Alfred's eyes, imploring him to understand. "I lo -" but again his voice grew hoarse, and he couldn't speak. "I can't say it, but … come with me. I want to show you something."  


Alfred turned to Francis, who dismissed him with a simple wave of the hand. "Go do as you please. I'll take care of the luggage and the hotel." Then he grinned. "Just hurry up and break this stupid old curse!"  


A worried passerby gave Francis a look, then quickened their pace as they passed. Francis chuckled. "Good luck."  


Then Arthur grabbed Alfred's hand and dragged him away - but Alfed didn't move. Instead his knees sagged, and he let out an embarrassingly loud sigh as pleasure flooded from his hand outward. He had to close his eyes at the onslaught of feeling - god, he'd missed this, and the months of hiatus were making everything so much more _potent._ Arthur looked at Alfred in alarm, blushing a deep crimson. "Oh, bollocks, I forgot … I'm so sorry, Alfred …"  


Alfred waved him off once he managed to open his eyes again. He took a few shuddering breaths, trying to regain his composure. "Let's just," he paused. "Go." Arthur smiled at him.  


"Follow me."  


____

"So, you didn't answer my question earlier," Alfred said, following Arthur closely through the crowded London streets.  


"What question?" Arthur asked, deftly maneuvering through pedestrians, bicycles, and cars.  


"Why were you going to America?" he said, nearly getting taken out by a fast-moving longboarder.  


Arthur glanced over his shoulder, smirking at Alfred. "I was going to see you, idiot," he replied, then led them down a flight of stairs to the London Underground.  


Warmth flooded Alfred's stomach. Arthur was going to visit _him_ \- he was willing to travel all the way across the ocean to see _him!_ But …  


"Why didn't you come earlier?" he blurted out as they boarded a train, slipping into the seats. "I mean - gosh, that sounded rude. Were you, uh, busy? You were probably busy -"  


Arthur put a stop to his nervous rambling. "I couldn't until now."  


"You … couldn't?"  


"Victoria wouldn't allow it."  


"Victoria?"  


"My grandmother," Arthur explained. "She was furious when I was sent home from Farmington. I tried to explain to her the severity of the situation, believe me, I did - but she wouldn't budge. I had to graduate with full marks and then help her at the cottage until June."  


But … today was the first of June. Did that mean Arthur had literally - ?  


Arthur saw Alfred's expression and blushed. "Yes, I've been trying to get a flight since about six o'clock this morning. The moment Victoria said I could leave the house, I, well…" he trailed off, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Anyway, that doesn't matter now."  


Alfred couldn't help the dopey grin that spread over his face. Arthur had been _grounded_ this whole time! And the second he'd gained back his freedom, he hadn't visited friends, or gone out, or anything - he'd immediately tried to get to America. To Alfred.  


"Is that why you were arguing with that clerk?" Alfred asked, curious. The train bumped slightly, pushing Arthur's thigh into his, and he had to close his eyes briefly as he felt every flower on his body shimmy and dance like they were doing the cupid shuffle.  


Arthur noticed how his touch affected Alfred, and attempted to put a bit of space between them. Alfred's eyes flew open, and without thinking, he grabbed Arthur's wrist. Then his face flushed with mortification. "You, uh," he said, loosening his grip and averting his eyes. "You don't have to move. You could, um…" he trailed off, too shy to finish his sentence. Arthur understood his meaning, though, and slid his hand onto Alfred's bare knee. He watched in fascination as Alfred's breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed and lips spreading into a serene smile. "Thanks," Alfred said, barely audible.  


" 'Course," Arthur said roughly. He cleared his throat, alarmed at how wrecked he sounded. "Anyway - yes. I'd been arguing nearly all day. Turns out it's a bit difficult to travel internationally when you have a criminal record. Even if it is just drug possession."  


"Oh," Alfred said, eyes still closed. He shifted slightly in his seat, so Arthur's hand covered more of his thigh. He exhaled loudly through his nose, visibly relaxing.  


Arthur wasn't sure how much longer he could take Alfred's behavior before he did something wildly inappropriate. He considered the many lewd things he'd like to do to Alfred on this public transport, his hand inching slowly up Alfred's thigh under his shorts. Alfred's breathing sped up, chest heaving erratically, and his thoughts quickly turned in a similar direction to Arthur's - the Brit's hand was warm and capable against his thigh, heating his skin and sending icy hot tingles down his leg - if Arthur didn't stop soon, Alfred wasn't sure how much longer he'd last -  


_Ding!_ The tram pulled to a stop, hissing. The doors flew open, and both of them snapped to attention, Arthur coughing into his hand and averting his gaze as Alfred surreptitiously adjusted himself in his shorts.  


"Erm, just follow me," Arthur said, standing to leave. Alfred followed dutifully, feeling like a man living on the edge as he unsubtly checked out Arthur's ass. As they walked out of the tube and into the bright sunlight of the afternoon, Alfred tried to take calming breaths. Being around Arthur had his body on fire and his mind in a tizzy - he was overwhelmed with the need to touch and be touched. The curse didn't help; his skin was thrumming with energy, and a low hum echoed in his ears. He could feel the flowers on his skin moving about, shivering and spinning in happiness. He focused, calling one to his forearm so he could look at it. A tiny pink bouvardia appeared, still withered, stem like a tiny blackened stick. He sighed. He'd thought that reuniting with Arthur would make them perk back up - but so far, no such luck. He saddened - if his flowers did get revived in Arthur’s presence, what did that mean for Francis? Would his ever perk back up again?  


He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Arthur stopping in front of him - he ran headlong into his back.  


"Oof," he said, stumbling back. Arthur whirled around to see what on earth was happening with Alfred and frowned in confusion when he noticed the wilting flower on his arm. "That's … new," he said, pointing to it with a worried expression. "Is it a tattoo? Or is it …"  


Alfred huffed. He considered making it disappear, but then decided against it. He may as well tell the truth. "So, you know the last verse - the one that you told me? Be careful, though: you mustn't go, together they must stay?"  


Arthur's frown deepened. "Yes?"  


"Well. Turns out that it quite literally means that a cursed couple can't leave one another, because then … well. All those flowers you gave me are dying. And my great uncle, y'know, Francis? He has the curse too - his husband died, so his flowers are almost completely dead. So. Yeah," he finished lamely, scratching his head.  


A look of panic crossed Arthur's features. "Wait - so I did that to you?"  


Alfred tried not to grimace. "Uh - yeah."  


Arthur's eyes widened, and a look of horror overtook his face. "But - I thought …" he trailed off. Alfred looked at him expectantly, willing him to continue. Arthur sighed in frustration. "I left so quickly after that party - I thought I could break the curse."  


Alfred frowned. "What? How?"  


"I realized when I couldn't say I lov -" he grimaced, coughing, "when I couldn't tell you how I felt ... I realized I had my family's old problem, a thing we called The Trouble. My mother had it - she could never tell people how she felt, she'd always choke. One time, she tried to tell my father how much she loved him - this was whilst he slowly died of sickness - and she choked so hard she died. So ... anyway. I realized I had The Trouble, and then I thought about the poem ... I thought that I had to defy the poem, defy the prophecy, defy that last line to break it. So I thought since the last verse said we had to stay together, if I left, if I left without a goodbye … then the curse would lift."  


Alfred almost laughed. "What kind of flawed logic -"  


"I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry. But I was frightened, okay? And now I realize - I've looked back through our family's archives, I've realized that I was so wrong, and what George did to John ... But I never thought for a second that my absence would physically hurt you!"  


Alfred bristled. "It doesn’t hurt physically, I mean, the wilting flowers do make me a little tired … but it hurts in other ways. Arthur, at that party - I wanted to tell you that I -" he stopped himself. Did he want to tell Arthur he loved him? At the party, and ever since, he’d been quite sure - but now he was feeling confused. The curse had his hormones all out of whack, his libido on overdrive - so of course he was thrilled to be around Arthur. But a small part of him wondered if the only reason he was happy to see him was because of the physical pleasure Arthur could give him. And if that was true, then he couldn't uphold his side of the curse-breaking, and then he and Francis and every present and future Jones would be fucked!  


Arthur sighed. "Listen. I now know that leaving was wrong. I felt terrible, but I also needed time - I needed to go home and figure out why I couldn't … why I can't tell you…" he quieted. "Anyway. We're here."  


Alfred glanced around - he'd forgotten that they actually had a destination in mind. He straightened up and willed the flower on his arm to go away. It travelled quickly up his arm, nestling in with its brethren underneath his armpit.  


Arthur looked at his arm, then did a double take. Face adorably confused, he balked. "Wait - where did it go?"  


"Where did what go?" Alfred asked.  


"The flower. How - did you…?" Arthur was clearly flabbergasted.  


"Oh, the flower. Yeah. They're all still on me, but I can hide them as I please, move them around, whatever. Francis taught me."  


"Oh," Arthur said softly. "But they're all … wilting?"  


"Yeah."  


Arthur's face set with determination. "Well. I have something to show you."  


He led Alfred around the small cottage they'd arrived at, stepping over a quaint stone path that led to the backyard. This must've been Arthur's grandmother's cottage - it looked so orderly and neat.  


Arthur seemed nervous, hands squeezed into fists at his sides, shoulders visibly tense. He led Alfred to the spacious backyard - and that's when Alfred's jaw dropped.  


A sprawling flower garden lay before them, beautifully organized in clusters, blooms of all sizes and colors bright in the sunshine. Alfred was in awe of how striking it all looked - until he looked closer. It looked like the flowers were in order - organized by type, clearing flowing from one variety to the next. He peered at the first blooms: daisies, beautiful white petals and bright yellow centers. He looked to Arthur, at the tattoo on his hand - the first thing he'd noticed about the boy, all those months ago in English class. He walked past the daisies to the next group of flowers - violets, waving gently in the breeze, smelling sweet. Violets had appeared on Alfred's skin second, after the daisies - he remembered their conversation about soulmates, the awkward pauses and loaded looks. Again he looked to Arthur, who only gave him a nervous half-smile, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The next group were pansies, then birds of paradise - those strange looking boat-shaped blooms - they looked even sillier in real life than they did on his skin. He sped up, looking to a patch of bouvardia doubles, then a group of carnations, petals just the right shade of mauve. Alfred blushed at the coriander flowers, and then the large rose bushes, bursting with coral, orange, and red roses. All these flowers - they were in _order._ They were in the exact order that they had appeared on Alfred's skin. They were a physical manifestation of his and Arthur's relationship. He turned to Alfred, and his heart nearly burst. He couldn't help the grin that split his face. Of course he loved Arthur. How could he not? What had he been thinking before? Arthur was thoughtful and kind, observant and cordial. He was diligent and focused, committed to whatever he set his mind to. He was perfect, and he was perfect for Alfred, and Alfred loved him so much he thought he might just explode.  


Arthur rocked from his heels to his toes, sheepish. "Since we both know I can't say it … I thought I'd just show you."  


Their eyes met, and even though they were six feet apart, the air crackled with tension. Alfred felt so much - he felt the energy humming in his core, on the surface of his skin, he felt Arthur's eyes burning into him, he felt the flowers brush his ankles, he felt the subtle breeze shifting his hair on his forehead. His vision started to go fuzzy, his peripherals going strangely gold.  


Gold?  


He looked around, and it wasn't just him - the air was shimmering with golden light, sparkling. His eyes met Arthur's - Arthur clearly recognized the gold, he must've traveled to the past as well - and then there was a loud bang, a sharp pain in Alfred's chest … and then it was over.  


Alfred immediately checked his body for flowers. If the curse was broken, they should be gone! But as he looked, they were still there, still wilted.  


He looked to Arthur in confusion. "Did it not work?" he asked, worried.  


Arthur returned the look, confused. "I … don't know?"  


"Can you say it?"  


"Say what?"  


"Say 'I love you,'" Alfred said carefully.  


"I … I love you," Arthur said, voice quiet. Then his face went through a series of emotions very quickly - shock, confusion, then pure delight. "I love you!" he said exuberantly.  


Alfred couldn't help but match Arthur's excitement. "Well, I love you too!"  


They approached each other quickly and embraced - it was everything and nothing at the same time. After a long while, they separated, giddy. Alfred’s joy quickly faded, though. Why did he still have flowers on his skin? And why were they still wilted?  


”So … you were able to tell me you loved me without saying it, which means the Kirkland side of the curse has been lifted. Right?” Arthur nodded. “And I - well, I’m pretty sure it’s obvious, but if you didn’t know, I love you genuinely, completely; I want you for more than just pleasure.” Arthur blushed adorably at the sentiment, looking at his feet shyly.  


”So why didn’t the Jones’ side of the curse lift? We did it, we did what we needed to do …” he trailed off. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it quickly - one new message from Francis.  


FrancisLuvsLouis69: merci beaucoup!!!!!!!!!!!  


_FrancisLuvsLouis69 sent an image._  


Below his message was a picture of Francis’ arm - covered in vibrant flowers. Alfred turned his phone for Arthur to see. “Look - my great uncle’s flowers have come back to life!”  


He shut off his phone and looked at himself - still nothing. But what about that sharp pain in his chest he’d felt earlier? He quickly stripped off his shirt to inspect himself - Arthur made a strangled noise, somewhere between an alarmed shout and a pleased sigh - and sure enough, right on his heart -  


”Is that … a daisy?” Arthur asked, peering closely at Alfred’s chest. Alfred stared down at himself. “I think so.”  


Arthur grinned. “I think it’s a Nippon daisy,” he said, voice slightly awed. The two watched as the flowers surrounding the daisy began to unfurl, fattening and ripening, blooming into full color before their very eyes.  


”A what daisy?” Alfred murmured, still watching the flowers wriggle and dance, growing more colorful by the second.  


Arthur gestured to the ground - the last plant in his elaborate garden was a humble little bush. It appeared to be a flowering plant, but it hadn’t flowered yet.  


”Nippon daisies are special,” Arthur said with reverence. “My mother ... she used to give me them when she couldn't tell me she loved me. My tattoo is a Nippon daisy ... they're wonderful. They are the last flower to flower."  


The last flower to flower - how poetic. Alfred knew this daisy would be the last flower to appear on his skin. He could feel it in his bones - the weight of the curse had been lifted. After hundreds of years, and so much suffering for both the Kirklands and the Joneses, it was over. And with the end of the curse came a new beginning. He smiled up at Arthur, who returned the grin in kind.  


”So … what now?” Alfred asked, feeling lighter than the breeze.  


Arthur didn’t answer for a second, seeming distracted. Alfred watched the other boy’s face, his pointy nose and chin, his green eyes that were now dark and hooded.  


”Arthur?” Alfred asked, suddenly shy.  


Arthur shook himself, looking slightly embarrassed. “Hmm?”  


”I asked you what we should do now.”  


Arthur’s gaze snapped up to meet Alfred’s. “Well, you’re not wearing a shirt, and my grandma’s house is empty. And don’t you think … maybe we should test if those flowers are still, erm, y’know … as sensitive as they were before?"  


Ah. So that’s what he’d been distracted by.  


Alfred smirked up at the handsome boy he got to call his soulmate - not because he had to, but because he wanted to. “Good idea.”  


The boys rushed to the house, and for a moment, all was still. The birds chirped merrily in the trees, tiny bugs and fat bees flew about lazily, and the flowers opened their petals to the sun, soaking in its glorious rays.  


Then the moment was ruined by an obnoxiously loud “Fuck, Arthur!” from inside the house.  


And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well - that's it, folks! I'd like to thank any of you poor souls who actually read this entire fic. I never thought I would finish it. Also, I was planning this whole other subplot where Arthur's jacket was actually Louis' (y'know, Francis' husband) and there would be this long complicated story about Francis wanting it back and how it was destiny, blah blah blah. But anyway. I really, really like the idea of the Nippon daisy, a variety of daisy that originated from Japan (also isn't that cool, because I featured aph japan so heavily in this story) that blooms super late in the year. So, it's the last flower to flower.  
> Spread love and plant flowers. That's all I've got to say.


End file.
